


A Fool's Endeavor

by lumbeam



Series: The Journey Itself Is Home [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hands, Heart-to-Heart, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Tenderness, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 16:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: “Oh, are you going back to camp?” Charles asked.“Nah, I got a couple more fellers.” He fumbled with his satchel, finding the next card. “Oh, my mistake, the next one’s a lady.”“And where is she?”“Down near Bluewater Marsh.”“You’re going all the way to Lemoyne?”Arthur shrugged. “Why, is there anything that Dutch has planned for me right this instant?”“I’m sure he has something for you, but he didn’t mention it to me.”“Ah, what’s another week?” Arthur smirked, giving Beeve a little kick to get moving through the blanket of snow.--Arthur and Charles go looking for gunslingers. A continuation of "Fingertips."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy. ohhhhhhh boy!!! I surprised even MYSELF with this fic. I never thought I had the patience to write a slow burn fic, but here I am!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy a long winding road trip with these two good good outlaws!
> 
> NOTE: if there's anything that might be worthy of a warning I will put them in the beginning of each chapter, but it's nothing too far outside the realm of the game :)

Arthur pulled out his camera, sighing a little. Emmet Granger was not as much of a match as he was expecting. He lined up the lens on his corpse, taking a picture. Maybe another, just for good measure. Sure, he’d been easy to find. Vague on the details of Jim “Boy,” and Arthur also had to shovel pig shit to get him to talk. It was like being back at camp. He grew tired of Granger’s arrogance, almost thankful he challenged him to a duel.   
  
That, and he got a nice revolver out of it. A little rusty, but delicately carved. The ivory handle was certainly a nice touch. He cleaned it with some gun oil, trying to get a little bit of shine out of it. Before he left to leave on his horse, he looked back. Part of him was tempted to feed him to the pigs, not that his scrawny body would be much of a meal for them. He decided against it, putting the revolver in his holster. “C’mon boy,” he whispered to his horse, legs still incredibly sore from the previous couple of days.

That morning when he took down his camp and rolled his bedroll, he pointedly ignored the pile of conspicuous dirt next to where he slept. A buried secret. 

He pulled out the list of gunslingers, drawing a thick line through Granger’s name. He looked at the next person on the list. “Flaco Hernandez…” He groused, finding his location up in the mountains. It was going to be quite a trek. He tucked the card away into his satchel, tilted his head to the side to work the crick in his neck out (no dice), and left without paying any mind to the flies starting to gather around Granger’s body.

\--

It was getting cold. 

Too cold for Arthur’s comfort. He’d had enough of the freezing temperatures when they were up in Colter. It felt like his nerves were just now thawing, and here he was again, hiking up the steep hills, watching the flora shrivel and shift into the frozen tundra. Before it got any colder, he dug out his winter coat. It smelled like horses and stale cigarettes, but he reasoned it could be worse. Slipping on his gloves, he continued to travel upwards. He just had to follow this hill, then Flaco would be there for his “interview.” Maybe it was just his luck, but he could only imagine this going south just as it did with Granger. He’d packed plenty of ammunition, luckily. Certainly not enough food, however. That was something to worry about for later. He cracked open a can of salmon, too salty to even taste the meat of the fish. It was still something.   
  
He checked his map again, just to make sure he was going the right way. Hernandez was up, way at the top of the map. Arthur wondered if he’d have trouble breathing being up so high. If so, he’ll truncate his “conversation” with him. 

He didn’t necessarily want to kill the list of gunslingers. Honestly, he’d never really _ wanted _ to kill anyone. Except, perhaps, a couple of choice people at camp. Scratch that, _ one _ choice person. Needs no introduction. Even then, he was perfectly content with waiting. Waiting for Dutch to see through the thinly veiled disguise to see that he was being duped by some snake. Until then, as always, it was easier to keep his mouth shut about it. 

The wind whipped at his face. He pulled up his woolen collar for protection. A snowstorm was brewing. Visibility was low. His horse, Beeve, had a difficult time trudging through the snow. And it was only going to get worse. Squinting, he looked for shelter, or anything to get him out of this. He wasn’t far enough up to Cairn Lake that he could just kill Flaco and live in his cabin for the night. Arthur finally found solace (at least somewhat) in between two boulders. A rock and a hard place, it seemed. He sat curled up, watching the snow storm. Searching through his satchel, he pulled out his notebook. Quickly flipping over the drawing of Charles, with the dark eyes and even darker hair, he turned it to the next page. He started writing.

  
  
_Found myself back in the mountains all too soon. _

_ Need to find this guy, Flaco Hernandez, for the gunslinger book. Currently caught in a snowstorm. _

_ The things I do for strangers._

He sketched his view in front of him. The damp boulders on either side of him, poor Beeve trying to get out of the wind as much as he can, the tufts of snow as it drifts off the pine trees off in the distance. 

He drew what he could, not daring to take off his gloves and expose them to the cold. His nose was starting to drip, sniffling and struggling to keep snot off of the page. Finally, it became too much for him, carefully putting his notebook back in the satchel. Curled up against the rock, he tucked his legs into his coat, trying to generate some warmth. He felt his eyes get tired, the wind serving as white noise.

\--

When he woke up, the storm was done. His legs were cramped and stiff as he tried to unfurl his body from his napping position. This was something he hadn’t gotten used to in this phase of his life, that phase being “old.” The creaks and aches and pains that first hit him when he wakes up. Be it from a nap, or a long night’s sleep, or probably even a coma, he always had that _ pain _. And it was only going to get worse. Such great things to look forward to.

He climbed atop Beeve again, ready to keep traversing up the mountain. The wind still hurt his face, and unfortunately he had to ride _ toward _ it. He tipped his hat down and leaned forward in the saddle, not only to help with his horse’s balance of going up the steep hill, but to protect his face from getting even more windburned. 

He could just turn around. Tell the author to go and find the gunslingers themselves, let him know no one really wants to read about some guy that can’t even hold his head up long enough to speak, let alone raise a gun. But, as he passed up along the river, he figured he’d already made it this far. Here’s hoping the pay will be good.

When the mountain leveled off for a second, Arthur checked Hernandez’s card again. Decked out in a fancy floor length coat and a bandolier crossing his body, he was certainly more of an intimidating man than Granger was. 

Then he focused on the notes on the back of the card.   
  
\- _ THE TERROR OF THE GRIZZLIES - _

Specifically, the line:

  * __RUNS WITH A GANG OF AT LEAST 10__

And then:

  * __PROCEED WITH C A U T I O N!__

“At _ least _ ten.” Arthur said out loud. He sighed, pulling out his carbine repeater and securing it around his back. He lightly kicked Beeve’s sides. “Go go!”

\--

As he approached Cairn Lake, he could see the camp of Flaco’s gang. Makeshift tents and a rustic cabin. Arthur figured Hernandez was staying there. He dismounted across the lake, then walked cautiously, boots stepping just on the edge of the ice. 

The men took notice of him immediately, pointing their guns at him. “Hey!” One man shouted. “You’re not supposed to be here, _ amigo _.” 

Arthur kept his gun on his back. He held up his hands. “Look, I just need to speak to your boss. I ain’t looking for trouble.”

A few of the men looked at each other, unsure. The one who originally called out to him said, “Well, okay, but don’t try anything.”

Nodding, he went further through the camp, his hands up a little. He made sure to step over the assorted trash and bedrolls. He had a hard time figuring out why these men were roughing it in freezing temperatures to protect their leader, but he knew firsthand that loyalty ran deep. “I got my eye on you.” One sneered, keeping his gun pointed at him.   
  
He made his way up to the cabin, only seeing the light from the fire through the window. He pounded on the door. “Flaco Hernandez, I need to have a word with you ‘bout Boy Calloway. I ain’t armed. Just wanna ask a few questions.” He saw Flaco’s head peek out through the window, only a brief glimpse of him.

The heavy door swung open, and there before him stood Hernandez, dressed in the same manner as on the card. He stood an imposing presence. Coughing, he gathered up some phlegm and spit it into the snow. “You wanna ask me about Calloway?” He faced Arthur head on. “Well here’s my _ answer-- _” 

The men both drew for their guns at the same time, Arthur only getting to his a split second before Hernandez. He fired off three rounds right into his chest, using the gun of the man he killed in the name of Calloway.   
  
He fell to the ground with a thump, a little anticlimactic for a man who was supposedly wanted in eight states. Swinging around, he fired his remaining three shots at the men who had their guns trained on him. He only managed to kill one of them, but it gave him enough time to dive into Hernandez’s cabin. Pulling out the repeater that was strapped to his back, he broke the window and took out the remaining men without much of an issue. He waited a moment, seeing if any of the men would get up and try to finish him off. Nothing happened. 

Opening the cabin door again, like Hernandez did only a few minutes ago, Arthur stood over the gunslinger’s body. He pulled out his camera. His face was pale. He died with his eyes open, thankfully not staring at him as he lined up the shot. Arthur remembered seeing a collection of post-mortem photographs years ago, shown to him by Hosea’s wife Bessie. He didn’t have a clue where she got the box of photos in the first place, but the images of families posing with their dead loved ones as if they were alive (especially the photos of children) stuck with him for a long time. She had a fascination with the posing in the photos and the normalization of death, no doubt inspired by the bodies lying in the wake of the Van der Linde gang. If she were here right now, she would help Arthur get a picture that was _ just right _ for the occasion.   
  
Instead, Arthur clicked the shutter on the camera. “Good enough.” He said to himself.

He looked around the campsite, picking up any ammunition he could use, or jewelry he could sell. All he found in the cabin were a few canned vegetables, which was still a plus.

Then he wondered: how long was Flaco’s gang living up here? Surely not too long, judging by the construction of the camp and the lack of supplies. For all he knew, the gang could have left the next day. Silver linings, he supposed.

He tucked his gun back away in the saddle, once again saying to Beeve, “S’all right, boy, let’s go.” It was getting dark. Either he could book it down out of the mountains, risking the ever-present threat of wolves, or he could stay in Flaco’s cabin. He weighed his options, finally deciding to stay at the camp. There was a fire already going anyway. He found some stray pieces of wood to block the broken window, preventing at least some of the cold air from getting in. He fed the fire and sifted through his satchel for dinner.

Over his meal of a can of beans (heated up by the fire, for once!) he opened his journal. He first sketched a picture of Flaco Hernandez, dead in the snow. He had a hard time getting his bandolier just right, same with his blank dead stare, but the sentiment was there.

_ Made it up to Hernandez’s cabin. I thought for a second that he’d want to talk about Calloway, but he had other things on his mind. Used Granger’s revolver to duel with him. Not sure if that’s irony or something like it. _

He tapped his pencil on the page, trying to think of anything else. Briefly, he peeked back at the unfinished drawing of Charles. He closed the book, too embarrassed to look at it longer than that. Scraping the bottom of the can of beans, he took his last bite. Arthur stretched, tilting the chair back slightly. What he needed was a hot bath. 

That was the first thing he was going to do when he got to the nearest town. _ That _ would really work all the soreness out of his bones. Maybe if he had the funds he could chip in for a deluxe bath. Sometimes it was kind of awkward, having a woman scrub at his filthy body, and truth be told he didn’t do it for... _ alternative _ reasons. Or, rather, primary reasons. He never propositioned them in that situation, instead leaning back and feeling the softness of their hands as they cleaned him. He enjoyed the companionship of the women, the touches, the light conversation. A couple of times in the past, the bath girls would take an interest to him, but he would let them down gently. It was also the same instance with saloons. He loved going there when he wasn’t starting (or finishing) fights, but when the working girls there asked him if he wanted any _ assistance _ , all he could do was tuck his head down and politely decline with a slight smile.   
  
After all, it’d been a while, not since-- 

Arthur rubbed his eyes until he saw stars, getting all the thoughts and images out of his brain.

Made no difference now if he was clean _ or _ dirty, because he was on his own. The only person in this area (hopefully) for miles and miles.

He drifted off to sleep on the flat bedroll just before the faint pangs of loneliness settled in. 

\--

Arthur saw a peculiar sight after he left the cabin. 

He was riding down the mountains when something caught the corner of his eye. Something dark. For a moment he was concerned that it was a wild animal of some sort. He slowed Beeve down to a trot, then pulled out his binoculars. It certainly was not an animal. Curiosity getting the better of him, he directed his horse to go off the trail into the heavy snow. Beeve huffed a little, but continued on. It was another lake, smaller than Cairn Lake. A pleasant looking cabin, certainly more pleasant than Hernandez’s, was right next to the body of water. He dismounted, focusing on the thing that originally caught his eye.

It was a grave. Or, at least, a desecrated grave. 

The shovel was still there, right next to the open casket. The body, dressed in a plaid outfit, looked like it had been picked over. Flaco’s men could have robbed the grave. It was hard to say. Arthur wasn’t much of a detective, but there was no new snow on the casket. Could have been recent. A sad sight to see, although his fingers itched to get out his book and draw the scene. He did just that.

As he drew the body, careful to make the contours of his still crossed arms, he thought about how he would look in his own grave. Hell, he probably won’t even have a grave. Just get left to rot somewhere. Arthur wasn’t afraid of death; he was all too familiar with it in this lifestyle. It had to happen eventually. He could only hope his death wouldn’t be foolish. Although, even if it were, it certainly wouldn’t be out of character for him and his foolishness. 

As he finished drawing the spade, he heard footsteps behind him. The hair stood on the back of his neck. He closed his book with one hand and grabbed his revolver with the other. 

He spun around, not knowing who to expect. When he saw who it was, his shoulders relaxed.

“You’re a tough man to find, Arthur Morgan.” Charles said. He was dressed in layers upon layers. “I’ve been tracking you for days.”

“_ Days _, huh?” He took his hand off of his gun. “And why’s that?”

“Do you know how long you’ve been gone?” He folded his arms.  
  
Arthur shrugged. “‘Bout as long as you’ve been lookin’ for me?”  
  
He shook his head slightly and laughed. “Try a week. Dutch was getting worried.”

“_ Dutch _ was? I--I told ‘im before I left what I was doing.”

“Whatever it is you told him, he didn’t mention it before he sent me away.”

Arthur scoffed. He wasn’t surprised Dutch didn’t believe him. He might have thought it was something more _ heroic _ or a secret scheme involving the Braithwaites and the Greys. He dreaded even thinking of those two families, especially so far away…

“Well,” he motioned to himself, hands sweeping down the front of his coat. “I’m fine.” He walked over to Charles and his horse. “S’that all you wanted to do? Check on me ‘n make sure I weren’t dead?”

“What _ are _ you even doing up here anyway?”

“I--Dutch _ really _didn’t tell ya?” 

He shook his head.   
  
“Well,” he started, kicking some of the snow around him, “I’m findin’ gunslingers. Ever hear of Boy Calloway?”

Charles cocked a brow. “Should I have?”

“Look, I ain’t heard of him either, but I’ve been _ tasked _ to find and, uh, _ interview _ the other gunslingers that were workin’ around his time. Guess someone’s writing a book about him.”

Motioning to the grave behind him, Charles asked, “Is that one of ‘em?”

“No, just--” he cleared his throat, “Jus’ somethin’ that caught my eye.” He climbed atop Beeve, a little clumsy with his big coat. “I’m headed down the mountain, anyway.”

“Oh, are you going back to camp?” Charles also got on his horse, only with much more grace.

“Nah, I got a couple more fellers.” He fumbled with his satchel, finding the next card. “Oh, my mistake, the next one’s a lady.”

“And where is she?”

“Down near Bluewater Marsh.”

“You’re going all the way to _ Lemoyne _?”

Arthur shrugged. “Why, is there anything that Dutch has planned for me right this instant?”

“I’m sure he has something for you, but he didn’t mention it to me.”

“Ah, what’s another week?” Arthur smirked, giving Beeve a little kick to get moving through the blanket of snow. 

“You’re not taking a train?” Charles called out, trailing slightly behind him.   
  
“With what money?”

He smirked. “Good point.”

They descend down a ways in silence, leaning back in their saddles. It wasn’t too icy, but neither of them could exactly risk their horse getting a broken leg. Or either one of _ them _ getting a broken leg. 

As the terrain flattened out slightly, Charles rode alongside Arthur. “Why are you doing this?”

Arthur laughed slightly, looking over at Charles under the brim of his tattered hat. “Well, why do we do _ any _ of this?”

“You know what I mean.” He seemed unamused. 

Arthur made a noise like he was thinking. “Seemed like fun.”

Scoffing, Charles said, “You and I have _ different _ ideas of fun, my friend.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s fun to you, Mr. Smith?” 

“Not chasing death ‘round every corner, for starters.” He said flatly.

“I--I’m _ not _\--”

The pathway narrowed. Charles trotted ahead of Arthur. “Say what you want,” he said as he passed, “but you know it’s true.”

Arthur was trying to think of a clever retort, but he couldn’t. He got lost in trying to think of things he did for _ fun _ . For _ actual _ fun, not trying to earn money to give to camp. The snow on the path crunched under Beeve’s and Taima’s hooves, serving as background noise for the two men to focus on. Playing dominoes was a nice thing, especially playing with Miss Tilly. She was much more kind about winning than when he played with Hosea, and she seemed to beat Arthur every time. 

Maybe a more passive thing, but he liked drinking with the gang around the campfire, listening to the smooth strums of Javier playing his guitar. Singing songs he only knew a fragment of the words to, mostly muttering to himself as the others belted out the words proudly. He remembered the night that Sean returned, trying to find Charles. It was certainly in a casual way, stumbling around with a bottle of beer in one hand, but no luck. He even checked if he was keeping guard. Rarely did Charles spend time around the campfire, and even if he did, he was always whittling away at something, keeping to himself.

He enjoyed spending time with Jack, taking him fishing. Even though he didn’t care about the art of fishing, the boy made him a lovely necklace of yarrow. It was still tucked safely away in his satchel. He’ll make sure to hang it up somewhere when he gets back to camp. Maybe, perhaps, as garnish around the bottled plant he kept at his bedside table. 

And, of course, there was the writing and drawing in his journal, not that he’d want to elaborate on that to anyone.

“And to answer your question earlier, I like to play the harmonica.” It sounded like Charles also needed a second to consider his own hobbies. “Maybe, with the right materials, I bead from time to time. It hasn’t really been warm enough to wear the vest I made a few years back, so maybe you haven’t seen it. Haven’t exactly had much spare time to make anything, though. Can’t imagine _ why _.”

Arthur wasn’t sure which one to focus on first. He’d heard the harmonica sounds in the distance, just outside of camp. It was always late at night, but it never bothered him much. His sleepy brain never connected that it was Charles that was playing. It was a pleasant thing to learn about him, feeling a warmth in his chest and a longing to hear it again.

He focused on other thing. “Never seen ya bead.” 

“I have in the past around camp, but you were probably too busy running errands for Dutch.” He paused for a moment, adding in a slightly softer tone, “I learned how to bead from my mother.”

“I see,” Arthur said. He’d heard Charles mention his mother a couple of times, but never went into much detail. What Arthur _ did _ know was that he lived with his tribe until _ something _happened to them. He’d seen the picture at the camp of him with his parents, his mother in a traditional Native outfit, complete with an intricately beaded headband. Arthur decided not to press further. No point in prying if he didn’t want to talk about it. 

Charles changed the subject. “Looks like there’s a storm coming.”

“Ah, _shit_\--” Arthur looked at the sky. Gone was the sun, replaced with a swirl of dark clouds. “Had the same issues when I scaled this part of the mountain.”

“We should probably find shelter.”

“Let’s just wait a bit. Try to get a little further down.”

“And risk getting caught in the storm?”

“Hold on,” Arthur sighed, pulling out the map. He traced his finger down the trail where they were, then diagonally. “Looks like there’s a cabin down this way--” He pointed to his left. “Not sure of the condition, though.” 

“We can’t exactly chance it.”

Folding up the map, he pulled the reins to the left. “Let’s go then.”

\--

They made it to the cabin just in time to spare. The two of them felt a little guilty about leaving their horses outside, fearing the worst. They compromised and gave them some semblance of shelter in the tall pines near the cabin.

On the inside, it was sparse. Better than either of them were expecting, thankfully, but still a little small. Just enough space for a bed, a small table and a few chairs. There was a stack of logs near the cobblestone fireplace.   
  
“We’ll just wait until it passes.” Charles said, mostly to himself, looking out the dirty window. “How long did you have to wait when you got hit with the storm while going up here?” 

Arthur chuckled a little. “Don’t quite know. I actually ended up falling asleep.” 

“Of _ course _ you did. You and your ability to sleep anywhere.”

That was mostly true. Arthur could conk out in a second, but as of late too much has been happening for him to indulge in a peculiar cat nap now and again. He learned how to do this when he was pretty young, probably before Dutch and Hosea took him in. Being out in the world, managing to fall asleep and wake up quickly was a viable skill. Only now with the napping came the soreness. 

Rubbing his chin, he thought about how long he was between the two boulders. “If I had to guess, it’d probably be ‘bout two hours.”

Charles sighed, turning away from the window. “Great.”

“You got somewhere to be?” 

Charles glanced back at him, looking slightly annoyed. “No.”

Arthur sat at the table with a groan. He took off his hat, resting it in front of him. “The storm’ll be over before you know it, Charles.” He fished through his bag and pulled out a deck of cards. “We could play euchre to pass the time or somethin’.”

“You need four players for euchre.” Charles took a seat across from Arthur. “Besides, I don’t know how to play. I’ve seen Dutch and Hosea play it with you and Uncle, but it seems...difficult.”

“S’not difficult,” Arthur dismissed, clumsily shuffling the cards. “You just gotta watch people play a few rounds.”

“Everyone says that, but I have yet to understand it from the yelling I hear from the camp when you all play it.”

Arthur cut the deck, stacking it. “Another time, then. Unfortunately I don’t know of any card tricks. Trelawny certainly tried to teach me some a few years ago.”

“To be a fly on the wall for _ that _,” Charles smirked. He leaned back in the chair, listening to the shuffling of cards. Despite himself, he nodded off to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: non-graphic depictions of hunting, cuts, stabbing

The storm was over in a couple of hours. When the two of them left the cabin, there was even more snow to account for. “Great,” Arthur muttered. He checked his watch. They were losing daylight quickly. And if he knew anything about the wolves along this stretch of the trail… “We might need to stay here tonight.”

Arms folded, Charles nodded. “I was thinking that too.”

“We gotta find some food, s’well. Only had enough for a few days.”

“But you’ve been gone more than a week.”

“I’m aware of that.” Arthur folded his arms as well, his body already cold again.

“Did you really think you could do this in a few days?”

He huffed. “Clearly my head weren’t on straight when I packed for this.”

Smiling, Charles asked, “Is it ever?”

Laughing softly, fondly, Arthur replied, “Ya got a point there.” A moment passed. Arthur’s cheeks got a little warm. “I’ve been hunting, though.”

Charles raised his eyebrows at that, surprised. “Have you, now?”

“Jus’ mostly rabbits. Small things. Tried to hunt a bear with Hosea, but--well, I’m sure you heard all that.”

“Sure did.” He motioned to the trees. “Let’s go look for food, then.”

Their horses, despite the cold, were okay. Certainly not like it was when they were in Colter. Arthur got his bow, then looked over to find Charles was leaning against a tree. “You ain’t huntin’?”

“I just want to see how much you’ve picked up from my lesson.” He looked self-satisfied, but Arthur couldn’t help but laugh.

“No pressure, then.”

“Let’s find a deer. I’m sure there’s plenty along the river.”

“Lead the way.”

Charles stayed propped against the tree.  
  
“Oh, you want me to do that too.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.” He waited until Arthur started walking towards the river to follow his footsteps softly. The two of them crouched down, trying to blend in with the snow. An impossible task.  
  
Arthur kept quiet, trying to focus on any tracks in the snow. They followed along the creek, the edges of the bank turning to ice.  
  
Charles spotted the deer first, but waited for Arthur to find it on his own. It was only a couple of seconds later that he stopped, crouching next to a fallen tree. He pulled the bow taut, lining up the arrow right to the center of the deer. It was a healthy looking doe, easily enough to keep them fed until Lemoyne. Charles perched himself on a rock, making slow movements to not startle the deer. The doe seemed content drinking the fresh water.

“Be patient,” Charles whispered. Arthur was surprised that he was able to hear it. 

“I _ am _ bein’ patient.” Arthur hastily whispered back at him, keeping his eyes on the doe. He exhaled softly, shooting the arrow. It landed exactly where he wanted it to, right in the heart. The doe cried out, but its suffering was short lived. Arthur stood, tucking his bow under his arm. Charles slid off the rock. “Nice job, Arthur.” He said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him a little. Arthur felt a warmth in his chest, heart pounding from more than just adrenaline.

“Probably should skin it here. Don’t want the wolves to be too close to the cabin.” Charles offered.  
  
“Mm, good point.” Flipping the deer’s belly over to his side, Arthur got out his hunting knife, cutting into the soft fur. When it was time to peel it back, Charles assisted. He carefully, almost too delicately, separated the skin from the muscle. As Arthur cut up the venison, he couldn’t help but notice the dexterity of his hands. When he originally taught Arthur to hunt, his hand was too bandaged to assist. Now, months on, it seemed he made a full recovery. He’ll have to ask about it later, see if there’s a scar--

Arthur’s hunting knife sliced into his thumb. He hissed. “God_ damnit _\--”

“Arthur! What happened?!” He seemed genuinely panicked. 

“I wasn’t paying attention and I cut myself like the lousy fool I am.” 

Charles sighed. “Can you finish with this?”

Arthur looked down at his thumb. It sliced through the glove and it looked pretty deep. He just hoped he wouldn’t need stitches. Something so _ mindless-- _

“Yeah, yeah I can.” He pulled the glove down over his cut, then finished up cutting the deer. 

Charles rolled up the pelt. “We could sell this when we get to the nearest town. It’s in perfect condition.”

Arthur nodded, picking up the cuts of deer, making sure to keep his bloodied thumb away from them.

—

Charles started a fire while Arthur set down the meat on a tray he found in the cabin. “Take off your gloves.” He ordered.

Arthur’s glove had all but gotten soaked with blood. His hand was red when he pulled the glove off. “Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is.” He wiped off his hand on his coat, then showed off his hand again. “See?”

“It’s deep, Arthur. Are you sure you didn’t hit the bone?”

“M’sure.” 

Charles furrowed his brows a little, then sighed. “Do you have any bandages?”

Gently tugging off his coat, Arthur motioned over to his satchel. “You could check.” He knew he didn’t pack any, but he was too embarrassed to admit it. 

He sifted through the bag until he said, “This might work.”

“What will?”

Charles pulled out Jack’s gift. “This yarrow neckl--is it a necklace?”

“Oh, Jack made that for me a couple a weeks ago. I think it’s s’posed to be a necklace, but he didn’t seem to account for my noggin. Guess it’s a crown or somethin’.

“Well, I hope he’ll understand and make you another--” Charles started to grind up the flowers with his finger and thumb, his other hand collecting the ground up pieces.

“What’re you--” He watched him place the flower into his cut. 

“It’ll help stop the bleeding. You didn’t know that?”

“...Should I have?” 

Charles sighed, but his expression was soft. “Remind me when we’re in town to use the pelt money to buy you a book on medicinal plants.”

“Hey, I know some things! Like--the ginseng Hosea gave me, and--and not to eat water hemlock, and what poison ivy looks like--”

“And now you know _ this _.” Charles motioned to his thumb. Blood was starting to seep around the bits of yarrow, but the bleeding had definitely slowed. 

“See? Why do I need a book?” He smiled. 

“I’d hate to think of what you would have done if I weren’t here.”

“I wouldn’t have cut myself in the first place, probably.”

Charles smirked. “Did I distract you?”

The tips of Arthur’s ears got hot. “No, I --listen, do I need to put somethin’ over this or?”

Charles pulled out Arthur’s bandana from his satchel. “I’m going to use this.” Not a question.  
  
“No, Charles you don’t haveta--” _ RRRrip. _“C’mon! I’ve had that for as long as--”

“Do you want me to help you or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Arthur grumbled, watching Charles fold the makeshift bandage.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.” Charles was lining up the small strip of fabric to go over his cut.

Arthur wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He’d definitely seen him write in his journal, and surely he saw the photos adorning his sleeping quarters. Even Mary’s photo was still on display, despite it all. For Christ’s sake, he had a present from Jack still in his bag from weeks ago.  
  
“M’not,” he said with a wryness. Charles smirked in return. He tied the fabric in a tight knot, not too bulky or too thin. Arthur flexed his hand a few times, getting used to the sensation. It was going to be difficult to write later tonight. 

Speaking of sentimentality.

\--

_ As usual, I done made a fool of myself. I was skinning a deer but was watching Charles more closely and not paying attention to what I was doing with my knife. Sliced my damn finger open like it was a stick of butter. This is what I get when I have an audience. _

_ I’m glad Charles was here to get me patched up. Just another scar on this old and withered body of mine. _

_ Forgot to mention: I think Charles is riding with me for this Boy Calloway trip. I haven’t asked him yet if he is. _

Arthur drew his bandaged hand, awkwardly holding his pencil. His handwriting hadn’t fared well. It looked more like John’s handwriting, that chicken scratch. At least Arthur had an excuse. 

“What are you writing in there?” Charles asked, keeping an eye on the venison over the fire.

“Nothin’ much.”

“You’ve been writing for a while.”

He huffed out a laugh. “That’s just ‘cause of my hand.”

“Mm.” He turned back around, keeping warm by the fire. “Our meal’s almost done.”

“Alright.” Arthur closed up his book. “Need me to help with anything?”

“I would ask you to help me get them out of the pan, but--” Charles shot him a sidelong glance. “I wouldn’t want you to burn your fingertips off.”

“Ha ha.” Arthur said dryly.

“You could set the table.”

“Oh, and be like real civilized people?”

Charles wrapped a mitt around the pan. “For once.”

Arthur looked in the cupboards, finding a couple of plates for them. They were a little chipped on the edges, a slight crack in the surface. Either way, he placed them on the table with a couple of knives and forks. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had to set the table. Even around the camp, when it was just him, John, Hosea and Dutch, they never had a formal dinner of sorts. Mostly just a “grab what food we made and sit on the ground” kind of a set up. Then again, that wasn’t much of a change from how it was now. Now there were just more mouths to feed, more chairs around the campfire.

Then, he remembered something from when he was little. Before Dutch and Hosea, before his father dying. When he was living in a measly cabin with his parents. His mother, bless her heart, always insisted they eat at the table. Little Arthur was tasked with placing the silverware and plates down, carefully teetering on his tippy-toes. Then they would eat in silence, as his father commanded. He would eat to the sounds of scraping silverware and the muffled drunken mutterings of his father. That’s how it was, night after night, until his mother breathed her last breath.

“You okay?” Charles asked, scraping one of the venison steaks on the plate. He must have noticed the pensive look on Arthur’s face.

Arthur blinked rapidly a couple of times. “Sorry, was a million miles away. Just thinking.”

Charles put the other steak on Arthur’s plate. “Thinkin’ about what?”

He poured water from his canteen into the two tin mugs. “Ah, it’s nothin’ important.” He felt a little embarrassed, although he couldn’t exactly place why.

“Mm, if you say so.” The two of them ate in silence, with the sounds of knives scratching the plates. 

He had to say something. “This steak’s really somethin’, Charles.” Arthur complimented, trying to speak without the food falling out of his mouth. It was like he was tasting venison for the first time.

He smiled at that, glancing up to look at Arthur. “Oh, come on, I just put some spices on it. I found a few above the hearth.”

“No, no, I mean I really think ya got something with this.” He took a gulp of water. “You could relieve Pearson of his duties. Sure he’d love that.”

Charles scoffed. “Oh please.” 

“I’m serious!” He said, taking another bite of his steak.

Shaking his head, Charles went back to eating. 

The two of them finished their meal around the same time. Not sure what to do with the dishes, they stacked them in the dusty sink. Arthur dug through his bag. 

“What is it?”  
  
He pulled out the gunslinger cards. “Just realized I never showed you these.”

Charles took the cards from his hand. The first card was Black Belle, wearing an intricately laced dress with a jaunty hat. She looked tough, not unlike the same toughness of Mrs. Adler. 

The back had notes about her, but the one that jumped out was her nickname. “‘The Dynamite Dowager,’ huh?”

“How come we never get fun nicknames like that?”

“Beats me.”

He gave Black Belle’s card back to Arthur, then looked at the other one in his hand. Billy Midnight, pictured with two revolvers. A mean-looking sonofagun. The notes for him seemed like praise, almost. A bulleted list of his _ illustrious _career. “He just hangs out around the Rhodes train station?”

“Guess so. Trelawny ‘n I did some business with the guy at the ticket booth there, sure it’ll be easy to find him.” He held out his hand to take the other card from Charles. “But hopefully we’ll be at Bluewater Marsh in a couple a days. Hopefully Black Belle’ll have some insights into Boy Calloway. Don’t want to have to kill her... Unless--”

“We won’t have to kill her.” Charles said sternly.

“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “She _ was _ one of the most deadly outlaws in the west. Maybe still is. The other guy I had to find, uh, Emmet Granger, I want to say his name was? He was a pig farmer. Looked like a wily old coot, but had all of his _ facilities _ about him, I’ll tell ya that.”

“Did you have to kill him?”

Arthur drank the rest of his water. “Mm. Same with the other guy, Flaco Hernandez. Killed him and his gang.”

“He was all the way up in the mountains?”

“Yeah. I stayed in his cabin, too. Can’t remember the last time I had two nights indoors.”

Charles smiled. “Yeah, you might get a little spoiled.”

“Hardly,” Arthur grumbled. He fished in his bag for tobacco and rolling papers. Charles watched him as he clumsily rolled up the tobacco in the paper, his thumb not doing him any good in the process.

“Do you need help?”

Shaking his head, he licked the side of the rolling paper, then found a stray match in his bag. He struck it on the side of the table, lighting the end of the cigarette. “There we go,” he sighed, breathing out smoke through his nostrils. He held out the cigarette for Charles, who took it in kind. Their hands brushed for a brief moment in the passing, nerves going through Arthur’s body like a shock of lightning. As Charles took a drag, Arthur focused on his left hand. “How is your--” he pointed at Charles’ hand.

“Mm,” he blew out smoke. “It’s okay. Healing.” He showed off his scar in the center of his palm. A mangled center of raised skin, almost stigmatic in placement. Arthur was curious how it would feel to run his fingers over the healing wound. That same hand passed the cigarette back to him. “I should also ask you about your neck.”

“Ah, s’fine.” Arthur cleared his throat, not showing off his markings in the same way Charles did for him. A fear of him reaching out and touching it again, sending him into a tailspin. “A little red.” He smiled, then added. “Pretty embarrassin’ you had to save me from something so dumb.” He took a drag. 

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. You would have done the same for me.” Charles said succinctly. If it were anyone else, he would have never heard the end of it. They would hold it over his head, using it as come-uppance for the end of time. “Could I--?” He motioned to the nearly spent cigarette.  
  
“All yours,” he said, blowing out the smoke. He checked his watch. It was getting pretty late, especially if they wanted to get moving early on. He surveyed the cabin, figuring out the sleeping arrangements. “We should probably be gettin’ to sleep soon.”

Charles must have noticed this. “You can take it.”

“Sorry?” He turned around in his chair slightly.

“You can sleep in the bed. It’s fine. I’m used to sleeping on the floor, anyway.”

“No--I can’t--” Charles gave him a look. A look that said “It’s fine if you want to take the damn bed, old man.” Maybe he was projecting onto what he was saying with his eyes. “All right, but if you change your mind--”

“Trust me, I’m _ fine _.” He stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the table. That settled that.

Arthur stood, walking over to the bed. It was stained and certainly flattened out, but a bed was a bed. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, facing towards the window. He certainly had been naked in front of other people before, going skinny-dipping and whatnot, but felt different in such close quarters. Even if he was just stripping down to his union suit, it still felt..._ strange _. 

Not that Charles was watching him. He was busying himself getting his own bed ready. Arthur heard the shuffling of fabric, clothes falling. He kept his eyes at the ceiling, listening to the crackling of the fire. “Good night, Arthur,” he heard. He said “good night” in return, then sifted through his things to find his revolver to put on the windowsill. Just in case. He struggled to get comfortable at first, the pillow a little too flat for him, eventually deciding to fold it for some semblance of volume. He drifted off to sleep shortly after that, the cold winds rattling the windows. 

_ Arthur found himself in the middle of a forest. He looked up at the hazy grey sky. Snow was coming down slowly. It melted on his skin. He was in his union suit, standing in the pines and snow, but didn’t feel cold. He walked one way of the forest, seemingly going on forever. _

_ “You’re bleeding.” He heard a voice say behind him. It was Charles. _

_ He looked down at his hand, covered in blood. _

_ Charles walked closer to him, closing in. “Here, I’ll help you.” He grabbed Arthur’s hand, sticking his thumb into his mouth. He felt Charles’ tongue swirl around the cut, his mouth warm. All Arthur could do was stare, mouth slightly open. _

_ After taking one more swipe over the cut with his tongue, he pulled away. “Is that better?” He asked, Arthur’s blood staining his lower lip. _

_ “Yeah,” he responded, breathless. He looked down again. The blood on his hand was gone. He looked back up at Charles, pulling him in for a kiss, tasting only iron in his mouth as their tongues swirled-- _

“Don’t you fuckin’ move.” A voice said. Arthur felt the barrel of a gun pressed under his chin.

His eyes snapped open. The fire was out, its embers barely highlighting the scarred face of the man standing over him. This part _ wasn’t _ a dream.

“Hands where I can see ‘em, _ partner _,” the man groused. Arthur raised his hands slowly out from the blanket, his hands itching to grab the revolver on the windowsill. If he weren’t sleeping so soundly, this man would already be dead. 

“What’re you doing in my cabin?”

Arthur stumbled for his words. “I was just--sir, I mean no disrespect--”

The man pressed his revolver under Arthur’s chin harder. “You done nothing _ but _ disrespect me! Sleepin’ in my bed, eatin’ my food--”

“I didn’t _ touch _ your food!”

“Shut up!” He yelled, grabbing at Arthur’s union suit. 

Arthur caught a figure moving in the darkness. Charles. The man must not have seen him, only focusing on the stranger in his bed. His eyes flicked back to the man after he saw the glint of a knife in the dying fire. He sat up a little straighter, hands more confidently raised. 

“_ Stop moving! _” The man yelled. 

“No, _ you _stop--” Charles said, forcing his knife into the man’s throat. Blood spilled down the front of the man, onto the blanket. He dug his knife in further, trying to stop the horrific death gurgles coming out of the man’s throat. Arthur could only watch in horror, feeling the light mist of blood. Charles held the man like this until it all stopped. He dropped the man, his body lying in his own blood on the floor. “Are you okay?”

Arthur was still holding his hands up. He huffed out a sigh, his heart still beating in his ears. “Yeah,” he said, mouth dry.

Charles grabbed a rag off the table, wiping down his knife. He tossed another to Arthur. “For the blood.”

As Arthur wiped his face, he couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s your tally on you saving my hide, Charles?”

“Three, if you want to count earlier.”

“I wouldn’t have _ died _\--”

Charles put his knife back in his sheath. “You don’t know that for certain.” Playful, completely detached from the scene. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.” He looked down at the body. “Prolly should clean this up.”

Charles motioned to grab the corpse, but Arthur said, “Please, it’s the least I could do.”

“I’ll start the fire again.”

Arthur hoisted the body over his shoulder, still warm. He could feel the blood seep down his back. It was...not pleasant. Not only that, but the layers of wool upon wool made him stumble a little, trying to walk in the dark with literal dead weight over his shoulder. He shouldered the door open, the cold air hitting him like a punch. “Christ alive,” he grumbled, tossing the body just off the top step. It landed in the snow with a soft _ thump _. Hopefully the body will be a good deterrent from wolves. Food without the hassle.

He fumbles back into the cabin, the back of his union suit covered in blood. Charles was getting some progress on feeding the fire, but Arthur still had to feel for the damage on the bed. The flannel blanket was pretty soaked. He tossed it to the other side of the cabin, hearing some clanging. His brain was starting to get bogged down with sleep. “S’there another blanket around here?”

He looked around the cabin. “I don’t think so.” Then he looked at Arthur, finally able to see him in the fire. “Looks like you need a new union sit.” He said plainly. 

“Sure do,” he grumbled, taking his winter coat off from the rack and covering himself with it. “Should have taken the underwear offa that feller before chucking him into the snow. Might have less blood on it than mine.”

Charles thought for a moment. “I have an extra with me, but I don’t think you’d fit.” 

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “What, you sayin’ I’m too big?”

Through the fire’s glow, he could see the look of bewilderment on Charles face. “No. The inverse.”

Arthur laughed, trying not to think of them switching union suits. “When we’re in town, I’ll use the deer pelt money to get a new one.”

“Or you could wash it.” Charles offered. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Arthur sighed. “Good night, Charles.”

Charles smirked. “Good night.”


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in a long time, Charles slept in. He never thought he would find himself truly comfortable on a cabin floor, especially in a stranger’s cabin. After the incident in the middle of the night, the fire coaxed him back into a deep sleep. The only reason he woke up when he did was the smell of coffee wafting through the room. 

“Mornin’!” Arthur greeted. He was bundled in his winter coat, sipping his coffee out of the tin cup. His union suit hung in front of the fire, still wet. It looked like Arthur dunked it in the river, then rung it out. A faded reddish stain was around the back of the underwear. A reminder of last night.

“Morning,” Charles sat up a little, his long hair a tangled mess. “What...time is it?”

“It’s about--” He pulled his pocket watch out of his coat. “--9 a.m.” 

“Shit,” Charles muttered, starting to gather his things. “When do you wanna get moving?”

Arthur touched the sleeve of the damp union suit. “When this dries. Probably in an hour or so.”

He shrugged on his blue shirt, a little tattered at the shoulder. He made a mental note to sew it up when he got back to camp. Arthur poured him some coffee. “Thanks.” He sipped it, then nearly coughed at how strong it was. “This’ll wake me up.”

“Look,” Arthur topped off his cup, “Hosea always told me ‘if it ain’t strong, then there’s no point in brewin’ it.’” 

“Hm. Wise words.” Charles wasn’t sure if he agreed. “When’d you get up?” 

“Couple hours ago. I woke up with my union suit stuck to my back. Went down to the river in my coat ‘n boots to wash it off.”

Charles resisted imagining Arthur standing out in the frozen river, dressed how he was now, wringing out his suit. He couldn’t help but imagine it, laughing into his cup. 

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asked, his tone playful. 

“Nothing.” He took another sip of the coffee. Still strong. Barely drinkable, honestly. But he was going to finish it. It would be rude of him not to. He downed the rest of it, then set the cup on the table. There was certainly more than a fair share of coffee grounds in the end of the cup that were now in his mouth. He decided to spit them out when Arthur was out of sight. “I’ll go take care of the horses.” He tugged on his pants and got bundled up to go back outside.

“All right, I’ll be out in a bit.”    
  
As he stepped outside, the first thing he focused on wasn’t the clear sky, or the horses, but rather the dead body lying right next to the cabin. The snow around him was a large vaguely human shaped red outline. Vultures were starting to pick away at him. He didn’t feel bad about killing him. It was either him or them. 

It was strange, seeing the people Arthur easily laid waste to compared to Charles. Sure, he’d killed his fair share, always out of the sake of self-preservation. The only time recently that he let his anger get the better of him was when he and Arthur went out hunting. Finding those poachers after counting half a dozen bison just being left to rot...it was an incredibly justifiable killing. The long slow killing they were committing for the tribes around West Elizabeth was greater than just him. It was probably the first time, if maybe the only time, that he was shocked and even  _ angered _ that Arthur didn’t kill the other poacher. He gave him the choice with the man’s life on the condition Arthur would  _ most certainly _ follow through with beating his skull in. One less poacher to deal with later, countless lives saved in the long run. Hopefully he will never see that poacher again.

Charles sighed heavily, walking past the body, off to Beeve and Taima. He took his time, brushing them down, picking any sort of mud or stones out of their hooves. He fed them a couple of oatcakes as he patted their haunches. They seemed to be doing well, despite the cold. “We’ll be getting out of here soon,” he whispered to Taima, reassuring her. He placed the deer pelt, slightly frozen, on her back.

The cabin door slammed shut, with Arthur walking over to the horses. He flipped up his coat, already cold. “You need to wear more layers.” Charles observed. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He rubbed his hands together. “It’d just be more stuff to carry, though.”

Charles rolled his eyes, feeling perfectly comfortable under his four layers of clothing. Then he mounted his horse. “We done here?”

“I think we are.” Arthur climbed on his horse as well. “C’mon Beeve, let’s go.”

They trotted along the path they led in with, eager to get back on solid ground. “I was lookin’ at the map earlier,” Arthur called out to Charles, who was leading the way. “We should probably head down past Valentine, pick up any supplies we need, then keep goin’.”

“You think Valentine’s a wise decision?”

“Look, it’s kinda the closest town we got. ‘Nless you have somethin’ else in mind.”

“It’s your trip, your call.”

“Speaking of…” Arthur started, then paused.    
  
Charles looked back at him. “What is it?”   


“Are you--do you wanna--” He cleared his throat. “Are you comin’ with me for the rest of the trip?”

“Do you not want me to?”

“No, no, it’s not that at all! I...I enjoy your company.” This sincerity kind of sounded painful for Arthur to say out loud.    
  
“Well,” Charles smiled, “I was planning on tagging along. I was thinking about sending Dutch a letter so he wouldn’t have to send someone else out to find us.”

“Yeah, knowin’ our luck, he’d send out  _ Micah _ or someone.” Arthur spat out his name as if it were acid. 

“Wouldn’t want that. We’ll stop at Valentine, then.”

“Good, I need to get cleaned up too. Still got dried blood on my back.”

Charles made a face. “We should be there in the evening.” The scenery was slowly starting to change. Grass was showing through the thinning snow. Charles started to feel a hint of warmth on the back of his neck.

“All right Beeve, c’mon.” Arthur clicked his tongue, moving up next to Charles. The path was wide enough for two people. 

They rode in stride for a few minutes.

“I have to ask,” Charles said, “Where did the name Beeve come from? It’s an unusual name.”

“Oh, it’s--” Arthur paused for a moment, closing his mouth again, trapping the reason. “It’s--it’s the name the horse already had. Think one of the stable boys named him Beeve.”

“Huh,” Charles didn’t believe him, but it was certainly an inopportune time to ask him about it. 

There was a long pause. The hooves were out of sync.

Arthur cleared his throat. “S’gettin’ a little warm.”

“Tell me about it.” He wiped away some sweat at his forehead. 

“Might dismount in a bit and change. We’ll be dried out husks if we wait ‘til Valentine to change out of our winter gear.”

“You  _ more _ than me.” 

“Mr. Smith, are you sayin’ you regret wearin’ so many layers?”

He scoffed. “I only regret it when we’re not up in the mountains.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head a little. 

\--

The two men packed up their winter coats, rolling them up and strapping them next to their redroll. Around the early afternoon, they rode into Valentine. “Mind if I bathe first? It’s been a while.”

“Go ahead. Be glad Miss Grimshaw isn’t here to see you like this.”

“Sure am.” He gave Charles a little finger gun salute. “Gotta get a new union suit.”

“Ah, you’re getting one after all?”

“It still don’t feel right.” He hopped off his horse, strolling into the general store. He bought the finest made underwear two dollars could buy, then strode over to the hotel.

In the meantime, Charles went to the post office to write Dutch a letter. A Valentine postcard would do the trick. He wrote it out with his finest handwriting with a fountain pen.

_ Dear Mr. Macintosh, _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to inform you that Tacitus and I will be traveling for the next few days, possibly longer. Nothing in our journey has gone wrong. I figured it would be better if I told you this sooner rather than later, lest you send out a rescue team for the two of us. _

_ All the best, _

_ Mr. Smith _

Deciding the wording was good enough, especially if it was intercepted by the Raiders, he wrote the address for the Rhodes post office on the other side of the postcard.

He went to go sell the pelt. He was sure he saw the bloody-faced butcher when they rode in…

\--

“Do you need any help in there?” A voice asked, tone a little too sweet.   
  
Arthur sunk down in the tub. “No thanks, I’m all right.” He heard footsteps walk away from the door. If he were traveling by himself, he might have bothered getting a “deluxe bath.” But now he had someone to talk to, to hear all of the dumb thoughts that tumbled out of his mouth.

Well, not  _ all _ of the dumb thoughts.   
  
He thought back to the dream he had last night. It felt nice, almost real. He could feel Charles’ tongue on his cut. It was -- it was --

He looked at the cut on his thumb, still deeply red. The yarrow had done its trick in stopping the bleeding. He resisted the urge to pick away at his newly-formed scab. 

He sunk his head back under the water.

\--

“Sorry friend, the best I can do for this pelt is four.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair. This is a perfect deer pelt.” Charles reasoned. “Not a scratch or a tick on it. I think five would be a much more reasonable amount.”

The butcher looked at the pelt again and sighed. They had been arguing the price for the past few minutes. “Fine. But if you try this again next time, I will be  _ firm _ on my prices.” He slapped the five dollars into Charles’ hand, stinging a little. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He pocketed the money, turning the corner. Arthur should be getting out of the bath soon. Not that he kept tabs on him, but he never was one for primping. 

He sat at the steps of the hotel. People passed by him, some polite, others not so much. Some people gave him strange looks, almost as if they were trying to determine his heritage. Only in a much more insidious way. Charles acted aloof, trying not to pay attention.

A man came out of the hotel, smelling of fresh soap and pomade. His clothes were threadbare, but clean. It was Arthur, and wasn’t he a sight for sore eyes. “I was afraid you drowned in the tub.”

“Sorry, was I really that long?” He scratched behind his ear, a little embarrassed. 

Charles smiled a little, standing up. “Just teasing you.”

“Mm,” Arthur nodded, surveying the town. “You need any change for the bath?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll meet you outside here, okay?”

“Alright, I’ll stay here.”

Arthur leaned against the post, pulling out his journal. 

_ Last night Charles had to save my life. Again. Turns out the cabin we were staying in belonged to someone. A real wretched old man. Woke me up by pointing his gun right under my chin. Kept asking me all kinds of questions then getting mad when I tried to answer him.  _

_ Charles snuck up right behind the son of a bitch and stuck his knife in his throat. Quite the mess. I tossed his body outside. _

_ Didn’t have trouble sleeping any, even with the smell of blood on my clothes. _

_ We’re in Valentine now, stocking up to go off to Lemoyne. Here’s hoping we don’t run into any more trouble. _

Arthur started to draw the scene of Charles killing the man. Arms holding him down, blood spurting out. He’d only gotten to a rough sketch of the drawing when he heard someone talking to him.

“Hey, do I know you?”

Arthur snapped his book shut and looked up. “No, you don’t.”

The man who was talking to him looked slightly younger than John. When Arthur made eye contact with him his whole demeanor changed. “It’s  _ you-- _ ”

“You  _ don’t  _ know what you’re talkin’ about, boy.”

“You killed my brother! A-after you robbed the bank!” He ran off the steps before Arthur could grab him. “Sheriff! Sheriff! Help!” 

“Ah,  _ shit _ !” He whistled for Beeve, who ran up to him just in time before the sheriffs started to shoot at him. Bullets whizzed by his face. “C’mon, hurry up Charles--”

\--

Charles came up for air, then ran his hands down his face. It was nice to finally wash himself, his hair especially. He sighed contentedly, resting his arms on the sides of the tub. It was a little too small for him, his feet sticking out of the other end, but it was better than bathing in the lake. At least  _ this  _ water was warm.

He heard a lot of commotion out the open window. First some yelling, then some shooting. It didn’t take too long for him to figure Arthur was the cause of this. He groaned, stepping out of the tub and running a towel over his body and hair. He quickly shoved his legs in his pants and tugged his shirt on backwards. He grabbed all of his things and ran out, hopping on one leg as he pulled his boots on.

“Is there anything I can-- _ oh _ !” The bath woman gasped as he ran past her in the hallway.   
  
“Sorry!” He called out, hair dripping down his blue shirt. He burst through the door, watching the commotion. Arthur rode past again, expertly taking aim at one of the sheriffs. He fired. The sheriff fell backwards from his horse, his body landing in the mud.    
  
“Charles, we gotta go!” He called out, racing out of town.

Charles whistled for Taima, who stopped only long enough for Charles to jump on. He kicked at her sides, desperate to catch up with him. There were still men chasing them. He pulled out his revolver from his holster, slung clumsily around his shoulder, and took aim at the man closest to them. He shot him in the shoulder. Not a fatal wound, but certainly something to keep him away from them. 

He clicked his tongue, telling Taima to go faster. She was getting winded. Arthur was just up ahead, Beeve galloping like he was running from the devil. He looked back. The law had given up. He knew, however, they weren’t in the clear just yet. Taima panted. He slowed her down a little, giving her a pat. “Arthur, Arthur!” He called out.

Arthur eased up as well, allowing Charles to catch up with him. Charles wrung out his still-wet hair.    
  
“Didn’t even have enough time to dry off?”

Charles glared at him. “No, because I’m traveling with the biggest fool in the West who can’t stay out of trouble for more than ten minutes!”

“Hey,  _ I  _ weren’t the one that  _ started _ that, okay? Some kid came up to me and claimed I killed his brother.”

“Did you?”

“Char--I don’t  _ know _ ! I might’ve! When Bill, Lenny, Karen, ‘n I were robbin’ the bank in Valentine, there were a  _ few _ casualties.”

“Of course there were.” Charles grit his teeth a little. He shouldn’t be surprised, knowing how reckless Arthur could be. 

“Listen, I did what ya told me to do. I’m  _ sorry _ it went down like this.”

Charles sighed. “How many people did we--did  _ you _ \--kill?”   


“I dunno, probably ‘bout three.”

“Arthur…”

“The other option was us gettin’ captured, or shot fulla holes. It coulda been much worse!”

“Coulda been better.” Charles muttered. They rode in silence, keeping a low profile. 

Arthur kept glancing over at Charles. “What is it.” He said flatly.

“Your shirt’s on backwards.” He laughed.

Charles looked down, then scoffed at his hasty dressing. He resisted the urge to smile.

Arthur pulled out a map. “We could camp out at Twin Stacks. We’re pretty close to there. Keep a lookout for lawmen. Or bounty hunters.”

Charles realized something. “We should probably pay off our bounty.”

Arthur dismissed Charles’ idea with the same question he asked a couple of days ago. “With what money?”

“I made five dollars off the pelt. You can pay the rest, since you caused all this.”

“I didn’t  _ cause _ \--”    
  
Charles gave him a look. It shut him up quickly. “All right, when we get to a post office tomorrow, I’ll pay it.”

They climbed atop Twin Stacks, the horses more than worn out from earlier. About halfway up, the two men dismounted and lead their horses up the rest of the way. The sun was just starting to set behind the mountains. They reached the top just before it was too dark for them to see in front of them. “Should we start a fire?” Arthur asked. 

“Probably not, unless you want to attract unwanted attention to ourselves.”

Arthur looked through what cans of food he had left on his horse. Two cans of kidney beans. Two cans of baked beans, two cans of black beans -- did he only eat beans?

“Which kinda beans do you want, Charles?”

“Which tastes the best cold?”

Arthur thought for a moment. “Kidney beans, I s’pose.”

“Kidney beans it is.”

Arthur tossed the can over to the Charles-shaped figure in the dark. “You sure I can’t, I dunno, get a lantern or somethin’? I’ll keep the oil low. It’d be easy to kill in case anything happens.”

Charles opened the can of beans with his knife. “Fine with me.”

The two of them ate their can of cold beans in the low light of Arthur’s lantern. Their meals were much more exciting last night. Arthur dug out a can of peaches for each of them. “I was lyin’ when I told that guy in the cabin that I didn’t touch his food.”

Charles laughed softly, wiping the bean juice off his knife. “At least  _ someone’s _ eating it.”

As they ate their syrupy-sweet peaches, listening to the sounds of crickets, Arthur couldn’t help but feel…a certain kind of peace. It was hard to explain, both out loud and even in his journal. There was slowly starting to be a comfortableness in their silence. 

“I’ve been wondering,” Charles said, chewing on his last peach. “Do you think you’ll ever leave?”

“Leave what?”

“Dutch. The camp. All of it.”

Arthur stared at the glow of the lantern. “I haven’t really thought about that. Not in a  _ long _ time, at least.” 

“When did you last consider it?” Charles asked, laying down on his bedroll. He propped his head up with his arm.

“When--” He cleared his throat. “When I was naive enough to think I was the marrying type.”

“...I see.” Charles said carefully. He’d heard the girls talk about this woman Arthur was with when he was younger. He saw the photo on Arthur’s nightstand. It gave him an unplaceable strange feeling in his stomach.

“Do you ever think about it?”

“Hm?” He looked up to find Arthur staring back at him over the flickering lantern.

“Leaving. Settling down.”

Charles furrowed his brow and sighed. “I don’t--don’t think something like that is possible for me. Not any more.” 

“Yeah.” Arthur said. “Jus’ wonder how it’s gonna end for us. Where we’ll all be, even five years from now.”

“Where do you  _ want _ to be in five years?” Charles asked softly, like he genuinely wanted to know.

Arthur scratched his chin. “I dunno. Maybe off in a cabin somewhere. Enjoying some peace and quiet. Listenin’ to the spring peepers at night. Leavin’ the doors open for whomever wants to visit, be it old friends  _ or _ enemies.” He felt a little embarrassed for talking this way. “Sorry. I’m ramblin’... What about you? What do you want?”

“It’s been a long time since I had to think about what I  _ wanted  _ for my future.” Charles looked up at the sky. Almost a little wistful. “Maybe something along the same idea as yours, I suppose. All I really want is to stop  _ running _ all the time. Running from the law, from society, from strangers. I’ve been running since my mother was--” he paused for a second. “Since--Since I was a boy. I just wonder when my legs are just going to collapse underneath me.”

“Yeah, I know how that is. Never gets any easier.” Arthur nodded, chewing at his lower lip. He coughed uncomfortably. A distant sound of a wolf howling. The seconds ticked by slowly. “You, uh, you want a smoke?”

Charles laughed a little, mostly out of relief. “ _ Please _ .”

Arthur lit a match and fished a cigarette out of a new pack. “Bought these in the general store.” He lit the end of the cigarette, inhaling.

“Tired of rolling your own?”

Arthur blew out smoke, then reached across to pass it to charles. “I only do that when I don’t have any left.”

“Mm.” He inhaled the smoke. It burned at the edges of his nerves, settling the strange feeling in his stomach. Exhaled.

“Do you know how to blow smoke rings?” Arthur asked, taking the cigarette back.   
  
“Can’t say I do.”

“Hosea’s tried to teach me for years, maybe as long as I’ve been with him.” He took a drag, then opened his mouth to an O shape. All that came out was a regular puff of smoke. “He says it’s easy, but that don’t mean  _ I  _ can do it.”

“Here, let me try.” He took the nearly spent cigarette from Arthur and mimicked the expression he had. Out came a ring of smoke, a perfect O. It floated over to Arthur as if to taunt him more.    
  
“Goddamnit Charles, do you ever just hate bein’ good at everything?” Arthur asked, slightly annoyed but mostly impressed.

“That’s not true, there’s plenty of things I’m not good at.” Charles passed Arthur the remainder of the cigarette. He took a small drag until it was down to the filter, nearly burning his fingertips.

“Name one thing.” He said, then paused. “ _ Besides _ euchre.”

Charles thought for a moment. “I can’t really draw. Not like you can.”

Arthur stubbed the butt of the cigarette into the dirt, hoping the lantern wouldn’t pick up the pink tinge of his cheeks. “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Your journal. It’s hard not to notice you drawing in it.” Charles rolled over so he was resting on his stomach. “I haven’t looked through it or nothin’, don’t worry.”

“It helps calm me down.” Arthur muttered, and even that sounded like he was saying too much. 

“Do you write in it as well?”

Arthur’s face must have been beet red by then. He layed back on his bed roll out of self preservation. “Sometimes. Just ‘bout what’s goin’ on that day.”

Charles seemed to notice the hesitation in Arthur’s voice. “Well, there’s something I’m not good at.”

“Yeah, out of a million things you  _ are _ good at.”

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of things if you stick around me long enough.”

Arthur laughed slightly as he killed the lantern, a pesky thought circling in the back of his mind. 

  
_ I hope I do. _


	4. Chapter 4

The post office worker looked up Arthur’s bounty. He tsked at the amount. “We’ll all have to pay one day--” He said, sliding the card from under the booth window. “And it looks like today is your day.”

Arthur grumbled at the amount. Twenty dollars. “C’mon, I think that’s a  _ little _ high--”

“The fine folks at Valentine felt it was more than reasonable for the little  _ stunt  _ you pulled yesterday.” The man behind the booth folded his arms. 

Arthur set his jaw. He glanced back at Charles, his expression saying it all. 

“...Are you _ serious _ ?”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ it was gonna be this high.”

“More like not thinking at all.” Charles muttered, annoyingly counting his money. “This should pay for the rest.”  
  
“Thanks.” He turned around and paid off his bounty. Freedom once again. It certainly didn’t feel like that to Charles.

When they walked out of Emerald Station, Charles asked, “Why is it that I paid for half of something I didn’t do?”

“You saved my hide more than a few times. Add this to the tally.”

Charles scoffed. “What number are we up to now?”

“Four and ten dollars?”

“Maybe you should write that down in your book.” He got on Taima, waiting for Arthur.

“Charles, I know this has been kinda you doin’ clean up duty for my mistakes--” He hoisted himself up on Beeve.

“As usual--”

“ _ But _ what I was thinkin’ is that I could pay you back."

He looked at him in a peculiar way. “What do you mean?”   


“Well, we’ll be near St. Denis. I could pay for your drinks ‘n fancy meals and whatever else you’d want.” Arthur spoke with a playfulness to his tone, with a strangeness to his voice. A nervousness, perhaps.

“How will you be paying for that?” 

“Let’s hope Black Belle is sittin’ on a pot of gold.” He clicked his tongue, putting Beeve into a trot. Taima followed alongside him. “And even if she ain’t, I’ll think of somethin’.”

Charles could only imagine what that could be.

“We should get to the bayou ‘round the early afternoon.”

“Let’s hope this woman doesn’t ambush us in broad daylight.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her. And I don’t even know her.” They both picked up the pace, riding out of the small town of Emerald Ranch.

\--

The humidity in the swamp weighed down on their backs. Arthur kept wiping pesky drops of sweat that kept getting into his eyes. Charles pulled the sides of his hair back, the strands sticking against the sides of his face. Arthur offered him another hat he had on his horse. Charles took it wordlessly. It only added more heat to his head, but it gave him some semblance of shade. A fair trade-off.    


“Be careful to stay on the trail. Don’t wanna get eaten by gators.”

“Oh, speaking from experience?” Charles asked, half-kidding.

“Uh, heh,  _ yeah _ . Helped a feller take a picture of the gators in the water.” He looked out to the muddy body of water near them. All he could see were the scaly backs of the alligators sinking down under the water. Waiting for prey.

“And did this man, along with you, have a death wish?”

“Nah, just a city slicker with a bleedin’ heart for everything that wanted to kill him.”

“Mm. Why was he down  _ here,  _ of all places?”

Arthur shrugged. “He was a professional nature photographer. Matter of fact--” Arthur pulled out a cabinet card from his satchel. He slowed down Beeve to pass it to Charles. “--he took this picture.”

Charles looked at the picture. A group of wolves, teeth snarling, waiting to pounce at the camera. “And you’re telling me he  _ wasn’t _ torn to shreds after this.”

Arthur shook his head. “Nope. ‘Cause I was there.”

“So you enabled his schemes.”

“No, he would have done them whether or not I was there.” Arthur took the card back from him, then picked up the pace again. “I was just there to protect him.”

Charles gave him a look of incredulity. “You meet the strangest people, Arthur.”

He laughed. “Dunno why. Maybe I’m a magnet for weirdos. ‘Cept for you, of course.”

“You don’t think I’m strange?”

Arthur smiled, his cheeks getting warm. “Charles, you’re the most well-adjusted,  _ normal _ person I know. I know that ain’t sayin’ much, given the other company we keep, but--”

Charles tilted his head a little, the hat on his head also tilting off-kilter. “Thanks for the compliment.” He seemed pleased.

“It--it’s true!” Arthur said, his cheeks only getting redder. Maybe he could pass it off on the heat.

\--

“Should be gettin’ close,” Arthur remarked after putting away his map. He got out his repeater, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Is that  _ really _ necessary?” Charles prodded.

“Look, not sayin’ we’re gonna, I dunno, shoot first, or anythin’, but it’s for our safety.”

Charles sighed, checking to make sure his revolver was loaded.

They rode past a boarded up shack, a little too suspicious for either of them. “Do you think that’s it?” Charles asked, motioning to the house.    
  
“Well, s’the only house we’ve passed in this godforsaken swamp.” Arthur pulled on the reins, stopping Beeve. As the two men dismounted, he asked, “You got your gun on you?”

“Of course.”

Arthur nodded, leading the way to the house. 

Before either of them could get to the bottom step of the shanty, Black Belle stepped out. Rather, the barrel of her gun stepped out. Both of their hands immediately shot up. 

“You boys  _ bounty hunters _ ?” She spat, face barely sticking out from the door.

“Not--not right now at least.” Arthur gave her a goofy grin. 

She directed her attention to Charles. “What about you?”

“No ma’am,” Charles said, shaking his head a little.

Arthur cleared his throat, her gun pointing back at him. “Are you Black Belle? I’d like to talk to ya about your Wild West days.”

She paused for a moment, then scowled. “I don’t care much for reminiscing.” Something seemed to catch her eye as she stepped out. “Either of y’all friends of bounty hunters?”

Charles furrowed his brow. “No. Why do you ask?” 

Black Belle looked to the horizon. “‘Cause it seems y’all done led them boys straight to me. With y’all none the wiser.” 

Arthur felt pretty foolish, looking back at the pack of men getting ever closer to them. “Ah,  _ those _ bounty hunters.”

She sighed. “Knew my luck would run out sooner or sooner.”

“You could head inside,” Charles offered, “We could say you’re gone.”

She pointed her gun back to Charles. He held his hands up a little bit higher. 

“No, I ain’t hidin’ from those scalp hunters, and I ain’t runnin’ from them neither. But fightin’?” She grinned at the prospect. “If it’s just me against them, it’d be a waste of time and nitroglycerin.”

“Well, let us know what we can do.” Arthur said, checking back at the bounty hunters. They were going to be there at any moment.

“You boys want that story?” She had a glint in her eye.

Arthur looked at Charles, whose gun was already out. He turned his attention back to Black Belle. “Yes, we do.”

She lowered her gun, finally. “C’mon up here, quick!” She pointed at the button right near her. “When I give you the word, hit that. Whole place is wired.” 

“All right ma’am,” Arthur nodded, almost a little nervous.

“You,” she pointed at Charles. “Get ready to shoot.”

Charles nodded. “All right.”

She gave both of them a wink before addressing the bounty hunters. One of them was holding an official looking paper of some sort.

“Black Belle!” One of the men shouted. “I got a contract here for your life or your liberty. We’d sooner it’d be liberty.” 

“Well, that’s mighty reasonable, mister! Come here, lemme take a  _ look _ at it.” She gave a flamboyant hand twist, fully leaning into her persona with the bounty hunters. 

The man looked unsure at first, but with Black Belle’s goading, he stepped forward. “C’mon, that’s it, that’s it-- _ stop _ !” She looked over to Arthur. “ _ Now _ , do it now!”

Arthur slammed the button down, detonating the explosive right under the man’s feet. He blew sky high. Even before his body hit the ground, the other bounty hunters had their guns drawn. 

From then on, it was a blur of bullets. Charles and Arthur were certainly pulling their weight in the gunfight, but Black Belle was the ringleader. She directed the two men every which way, all but pulling the trigger on their guns herself. More bounty hunters seemed to spring up from the swamp, shooting at the shanty in every direction. They even wheeled in a gatling gun. “A gatling gun is more for an  _ army _ , not a damn  _ widow _ !” Black Belle shouted. Charles had the honor of sending a bullet through the shooter’s brain. “Now  _ that’s _ what I’m talking about!” She clapped Charles on the back. He couldn’t help but feel a little proud. 

Belle got the last shot for the bounty hunter. “Whew!” She cheered. “Is that the last of ‘em?” She craned her neck around the perimeter, only finding bodies. 

“Yep, looks like you got ‘em all.” 

“For now.” She said, disappearing into the cabin for a moment.   
  
“_Now_ are you gonna tell us about your Wild West days?” Charles asked, holstering his gun.

“Yeah, when you ran with Jim ‘Boy’ Calloway?”

She returned from the shack, carrying a big bag of all her belongings. “You mean  _ Little _ Boy Calloway?” She laughed.

“He sounds like somethin’ of a famous gunslinger.” Arthur suggested. 

Scoffing, she said, “So they say, but don’t get what’s famous confused with what’s true.” Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she walked down the steps to her horse. “Back in the day, we were too busy worryin’ for our scalps to be talkin’ to any newspapers or dime store novelists.”

“What was it like, back then?” Charles asked. 

She thought for a moment. “Same as it is now, I s’pose. Only longer ago.”

Seeming satisfied with that answer, Arthur said, “I’m gonna need your picture too, if it ain’t no trouble?”

“No sir, no trouble at all.”

Arthur pulled out his camera. Charles watched back by the horses, his arms folded. Content with keeping a distance.    
  
Belle pulled out her gun, pointing it up in the air. “How ‘bout one like this?” She asked.    
  
_ Click. _ “Okay, I think I got it.” 

Slinging her gun on her back, she climbed up on her horse.

“You gonna be alright, Mrs. Belle?”

With a sigh, she said, “I’ve been runnin’ for more than twenty years. I s’pose when I stop is when I’m dead.”

Arthur gave her grimace disguised as a smile. Doesn’t  _ that _ sound familiar.    
  
She nodded at the two men, then turned back and clicked her tongue. Her horse cantered away. And like that, it was like she was never there.

“Interesting woman,” was all Charles could say. He got on Taima, waiting for Arthur. But he, on the other hand, had something else in mind. “What’re you doing?”

“I bet these bounty hunters have some sort of cash on ‘em,” He said, crouching down to pick their pockets. He found stray bullets, some wadded up bills, a pocket watch...certainly not bad. He grabbed at the bodies that hadn’t sunken in completely, pulling out more than enough money and goods to pay Charles back. Not only that, but-- “You wanna still get that drink in St. Denis?” He felt a tightness in his chest as he asked it, like his rib cage was in a vice. 

The sun was starting to set. Surely it’d be a fun getaway from the muggy swamp. “Fine with me.”

Arthur gave a slight smile at that, letting go of one of the bounty hunter’s lapels. The body fell back in the mud with a  _ splat _ .

\-- 

Arthur was sitting on seventy five dollars. And that was  _ after _ he paid Charles back. All the more reason for celebration. He checked his map for a nearby saloon. “Well, there’s one that offers dinner  _ and _ drinks, among other  _ festivities _ .” 

“I’m fine with anything as long as we don’t get shot at.”

Arthur folded up his map again. “Can’t guarantee that.” 

“Well, just  _ try _ to not start anything.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who threw a  _ chair _ back in Valentine!”

“No,” Charles smirked, “but you  _ did _ get in a fight in front of the whole town.”

“Listen, that guy had it out for me.” Arthur said defensively, “There weren’t anything I could do.” 

Charles laughed, nudging Taima to keep up with Beeve’s pace. The hooves on the cobblestone street provided an even rhythm. It was certainly soothing despite the narrowness of the city plan. “ _ Whatever _ you say, Arthur.”

As the two of them opened the door for the saloon, they were certainly odd men out. Well-dressed men and women looked back at them in either surprise or disgust, some a mix of the two. Really, Arthur didn’t blame the stares. His clothes were covered in caked in mud, and Charles didn’t look much better. 

“Might have preferred staying in the bayou.” Arthur muttered to Charles.

“Tell me about it.” His eyes searched for the nearest washroom. “Find us a table?” 

“Alright,” Arthur muttered, carefully maneuvering his way through the saloon. He took off his hat and put it on an empty table, using it as a temporary placeholder so he could go up and order. If it were any other town, he wouldn’t dare leaving his hat somewhere. That, and despite the stares, he felt nothing wild was going to happen that night. If he had anything to say about it, that was. Besides, these gentlemen were dressed like prized penguins, what would they want with Arthur’s dusty old hat?

The saloon patrons had gone back to their polite chatter, the clinking of drinks. A piano man played ragtime. It was...odd. Maybe a little too civilized. Good enough for a night, perhaps.

Arthur smoothed his hair back with his hand, catching his reflection behind the bartender. He looked a mess. Charles had the right idea in getting himself cleaned up. He might follow suit, for once feeling a little too aware of his looks.    
  
“What can I get you, sir?” The bartender asked. He had a slight French accent. Or, at least, Arthur thought it was French.   
  
“Do you have a menu somewh--” He started. The bartender pointed to the card at the end of the table. “Ah, thank you.” 

Delicately written in cursive, the menu gave two options: filet mignon with a baked potato or roast chicken with assorted vegetables.

“I’ll take one of each, I guess.” 

“That’ll be five dollars, sir.”

Arthur did his best not to balk, a holdover from when he was courting Mary. He pulled out a five from his pocket.

“Your food will be brought to you,  _ monsieur.  _ Please have a seat.” 

“Okay, uh--” Arthur pointed in the general direction of his table. “I’m sittin’ over--”

“I’m sure I will have no problem finding you.” The bartender said wryly.

Arthur nodded, turning to go back to his table. He found Charles sitting there, messing with the rope on his hat. The trip to the washroom did him some good. It hardly looked like he was in the swamps just a couple hours before. “You a chicken man or a  _ fill-et mig-non _ kinda guy?”

Charles gave him a look. “... _ What _ ?”

“I ordered two different meals. I’ll eat the one ya don’t want.”

“No, I mean, what was the second option?”

“It looked like some kinda French term. I dunno how to say it.”

Charles thought for a moment. “I’ll go with the second option.”

“You sure?” 

Charles gave him a slight smile. “Not very often we’re in the city.”

Trying desperately not to think of the “we” in that statement, Arthur told him, “I’m gonna go wash up.”

“Washroom’s in the corner.” Charles pointed. Arthur gave him a weak salute. 

Arthur cleaned off his face with a damp cloth. He ran his hands under the faucet, waiting for the water to run completely clean. As he waited, enjoying the rarity of running water, he looked in the mirror. Ran his tongue over his teeth. Stared only long enough as he could handle looking at himself. The water was clean. He slicked his hair back with some pomade he had in his bag. _Good_ _enough_, he thought.

When he came back to the table, he found the bartender had dropped off their food.    
  
“I asked him how to pronounce this,” Charles said, motioning to his plate. “Fill-Ay, Min-yon.”

“‘ _ Fill-ay min-yon _ ,’” Arthur repeated, the syllables sounding odd on his tongue. “Is it like...is it a fancy steak?”

“Guess so.” Charles took a bite of the steak. “S’pretty good,” he said through his bite.

“Glad ya think so.” He smiled. As he cut up his chicken, he couldn’t help but think about all the dates he’d been on with Mary. She would always offer a bite of her meal to Arthur, although more often than not she would steal more bites from his meal. It was so rare, having a sit-down meal with someone. If he lived in the city (which he’d be dead before having that happen), he could feasibly have a meal every night at a restaurant. What a strange thought. He took a bite of his chicken, perfectly cooked and seasoned. He had to admit that it was much better than what he cooked over the fire.

“So what do you think about all this?” Arthur asked, gesturing his fork to the fancy ladies and gentlemen around them.

Charles rolled his eyes, taking a drink of water. “Unnecessary.” He mashed up his potato with his fork. “What about you?”

“Heh, ‘bout the same.”

“But I’m sure it’s not unlike hanging around the Greys and the Braithwaites, is it?”

For a split second, Arthur almost forgot what he was talking about. Those families, all those issues at camp, were buried in the back of his mind. He bit back a groan, thinking about all the things he left behind for his brief trip. Not brief enough.

“Ya just  _ had _ to bring them up, didn’t ya.” Arthur shook his head, taking another bite of his meal.   
  
“They’re the reason why you did this trip, isn’t it?” Charles asked.

Arthur moved his fork around his plate, scraping together all the vegetables into one pile. “No,” he said, not even sure enough to convince himself.   
  
“If it is, I don’t blame you.” Charles placated. “I’m not sure what Dutch even has planned with them.”

Arthur sighed, taking a bite of a particularly crunchy piece of broccoli. “I don’t either,” he grumbled.

“Does it ever worry you?” He took a bite of his steak. “The fact that Dutch is just as unsure as the rest of us?”

Arthur felt an uneasiness in his stomach. This was all something he couldn’t really articulate outside of camp, and sure as hell not in camp. He’d been following Dutch ever since he was a boy. To go against him would be to go against his own teacher. His mentor. His father.

“Don’t--” He cleared his throat. “Don’t know what you want me to say.”

Charles leaned in. “I’m not lookin’ for what I  _ want _ you to say. I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

“There’s your first mistake there. Thinkin’ that I  _ do _ think.”

“C’mon, don’t do that.” He lightly chided. “Besides, you know Dutch better than anyone.”

“Mm,” Arthur took a drink of water. “‘Cept Hosea.”

“Fair point.”

After digging his fork into the grain of the chicken, Arthur finally said, “I don’t always trust in Dutch.” He spoke lowly, as if Dutch could hear him. “But ain’t nobody tryin’ anything else. And, and, Dutch has gotten the camp out of binds before--”

“Certainly not Blackwater,” Charles quipped.   
  
“‘Cept Blackwater,” Arthur conceded. “‘N even then, he led us to safety. Might’ve been by the skin of our teeth, but most of us made it.” He looked away from Charles, brows furrowed. As if he felt guilt for talking about Dutch this way. 

“It’s okay to have doubts, Arthur.” He soothed. 

“I know,” he said with a sigh. “I know. An’ maybe this trip  _ was _ convenient, I’ll give you that.”

Charles smiled at the admittance. He knew how guarded Arthur was about the oddest things. And Charles knew if he were anyone else, he wouldn’t give his true feelings. He would have died, all of his doubts locked up inside of him. He felt a strange feeling in his chest, like a snake was coiling around his heart.

“Are you done grillin’ me with questions?” Arthur asked, flashing him a goofy grin. Only for a second.    
  
“Yeah,” he smiled back, taking his last bite of his meal. “I am.”

“Good. Felt like I was under a spotlight or somethin’.” He looked back toward the bar. “What do ya want to drink?”

Charles shrugged. “Whatever you’re having.”

“Whiskey it is!”

The night was starting to pick up. There were more patrons at the bar than when he ordered, so it felt like forever and a day to even get the bartender’s attention. “S’cuse me!” He called out to the man. He had to elbow a few other men to even  _ see _ the man behind the bar, much to their chagrin.

“Yes,  _ le bouvier _ ?”

“You got any low shelf whiskey?” He nudged his way to the bar, pressing his elbows down firmly to keep his spot. 

“No, only middle and top.”

“An’ how much will middle run me?”

“Two dollars for two fingers worth.”

Arthur grumbled, gathering some stray bills. “Gimme two glasses. Two fingers each.” Before he had time to flatten out his money to hand over, there were two glasses waiting for him. “Thank ya kindly.” He spun around, looking out at the tables.

He saw Charles, who wasn’t alone at the table anymore. He was talking to a saloon girl. He wanted to shove his way over to their table, make some gauche enough comments to scare her off, but his feet stayed anchored in the spot. He watched them talk. She had a drink in one hand, and a fan in the other. She offered him her drink, which he took kindly. He seemed happy, comfortable, in her presence. 

Arthur turned back to the bar, still holding the two glasses of whiskey. He consolidated the two drinks, sliding the glass back to the bartender. He took a sip, surprised at the lack of a burn as he swallowed. So  _ this _ was why middle shelf whiskey was so much more expensive. He couldn’t imagine what top shelf tasted like. Probably like water. “Is everything to your liking?” The bartender asked, taking the stray glass. 

“Sure is, uh -- what’s your name?” He took another sip, slightly larger than his first. 

“Henri.”

“How do ya spell that?”

The bartender sighed. “Like Henry, but with an i.” 

“How come ya don’t pronounce the H?”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Just the rules of the French language.”

“Mm,” he took another drink, finding he was already half done. “More rules’n English.”

“That is for certain.”

“Well, pleasure to meet you, Henri.” He made sure not to pronounce the H. “Name’s Arthur.”

“Pleasure.” Henri said, turning back to assist other customers.   
  
Arthur spun back around in his chair, checking to see if the woman was still at the table. Much to his chagrin, she was. They seemed to be getting along well. Charles seemed to be smiling more than maybe he’d ever seen before. The woman laughed and shook her head slightly, her dark ringlets swaying slightly. Arthur, feeling a bit loosened up now, didn’t shy away from thinking about her and Charles tangled up in bed, their dark hair pooling on the sheets--

“See someone you like?” He heard a voice ask. A saloon girl had made her way up to the bar, taking an interest in him. In the outsider. She was tall, with cascading auburn hair and a low cut dress. Her cheeks were pink with a garish rouge. 

“Uh,” Arthur said dumbly, “what?”

She motioned with her fan over to the table with the other woman and Charles. “I’ve been watching you make eyes at that table for the past few minutes.”

“Oh, well--” He started to say, then took a nervous sip from his glass. He was almost done with his drink. “I--it’s not--”

“Would you like me to go get her?” 

Arthur’s shoulders relaxed a little. “No, ‘m good, thank you.” He glanced back behind him, making eye contact with Henri for a top off.    
  
“Or maybe,” the woman said, folding up her fan. “You want some of  _ my _ company?” She placed a delicate hand on his bicep.

Arthur took his newly filled glass, giving her a charming smile. “Thank you for the offer, ma’am, but I’m just gonna stay here ‘n enjoy my drink.”

She seemed a little crestfallen, her hand still on his arm. “All right, but you know where to find me if you change your mind.” She gave him a parting wink, her fingers trailing off him slowly. 

He watched her walk away, quickly finding the attention of another gentleman. Really, it was second nature to Arthur to turn down saloon girls advances. Sure, there were times where he was tempted to give in, but not enough to follow through with it. When he was younger, he used to be more cavalier towards sex, just as he was with killing. Now, in his slightly more mature age, he didn’t feel as much need to pay for anything like that. No need to get his rocks off with a stranger. Besides, especially as of late, he just didn’t have the damn  _ time _ . He sipped at his drink, feeling the warmth sink into his muscles, as he tried to subtly steal glances over at Charles’ table. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Your friend keeps looking over here.” The woman named Clara whispered in Charles’ ear. “He is your friend right? Not just some strange cowboy?”

Charles laughed lightly. “He is my friend, but he’s also strange.” He stole a sip from her bottle of beer, not really enough to have an effect on him.

“Do you think he’s green with envy because you have me and he doesn’t?” She kissed him on the neck.

Charles sighed into the kiss, savoring the feeling of her lips. “He’s not really the jealous type.”

Clara planted another soft kiss just below his ear. “You want to take this upstairs?”

He nodded, looking back at the bar. Arthur was turned away from them now.

“Yeah, I do.” He answered softly. She got up from the table, grabbing his hand. As they navigated their way upstairs, he caught one last glance with Arthur. He had an unreadable expression on his face as he watched them go up to the second floor.

They found their way to a door marked with the number 3. Clara knocked lightly to make sure it wasn’t occupied, then unlocked the door. “Come in,” she whispered, pulling Charles by the shirt into the room. The bedroom was nicer than any inn or hotel he’d been in before, with the delicate embroidered taffeta bedspread, doilies aplenty, and a rich green oil lamp illuminating the room. Clara put her hands on Charles’ face, closing the space between their lips. The kiss was soft, gentle. She broke the kiss, it serving as a teaser for the main event. “You got money, right?”

“How much do you need?” Charles asked, looking at her with half-lidded eyes.

“Five is my standard fee.”

He clicked his tongue, pulling out his payment. “City living,” he muttered. She stuffed the money into the hidden pocket of her dress.

She looked back up at him, her eyes shining in the low light. “Where were we?”

Charles kissed her again, just as softly as before. Clara had different plans. She fell back onto the bed, taking Charles with her. She hiked up her skirt, moving her petticoat. His hips were lined up with hers. She kissed him fiercely, him barely keeping up with her pace. She started to push her mound against the front of his pants. “Go on, Charles.” She whispered, wrapping her legs around him. He could just pull down his pants and get right to it, but--

He couldn’t do it.

His body, having the expected reaction to this, was able to. But his mind was not. He looked at her, panting. She furrowed her brow, more confused than upset. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t--” He pulled away from her, one foot on the floor. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure why. “I can’t do this.”

“Sure feels like you can--” Her eyes flicked downward.

“No, I mean…” He struggled to find the words. All he could think about was the look he shared with Arthur as he was going up the stairs. Was it disappointment? Anger? Sadness? Or was it really jealousy, just as Clara predicted? “This doesn’t...feel right.”

Clara unwrapped her legs from around his waist. She sat up. “Was it--”

Charles adjusted his clothes. “It’s nothing you did.” He assured her.

“Can I--”

“And you can keep the payment.” He opened the door, leaving her to straighten out her dress. “Thanks anyway.” He said as a goodbye.

Charles shut the door behind him, feeling more and more strange with each step. He thought back to the time when they first went to Valentine’s saloon. Arthur deliberately sabotaged the time they could have had getting laid. He remembered how he reached for the woman as she walked away from him in disgust. And now, Arthur had inadvertently ruined another chance of Charles getting laid.

But, really, Charles didn’t mind. Now that the blood had rushed to the rest of his body again. He walked down the stairs, immediately spotting Arthur at the bar. “Charles!” Arthur called out, already a few sheets to the wind. He didn’t seem bothered by the glares from the other patrons for his outburst. Charles imagined he’ll have to play catch up for a while with his drinking. “That was quick!”

“Keep your voice down,” he chided, smirking slightly. “And nothing happened.”

“Henri, give me some of that top shelf for my friend Charles!” Arthur threw some crumpled bills on the table, a couple of them spattered with blood. Either way, Henri took it. He poured Charles a generous amount. “You gotta try this. Smoother’n a rabbit’s pelt.”

Charles took a swig. He certainly wasn’t wrong. He downed the rest of his drink.

Arthur clapped him on the back. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He yelled.

“How many have you had?” Charles yelled, the room seemingly getting louder.

“Henri! Henri!” He called out, slumped over the bar. “How many have I--” The bartender held up three fingers. “There ya go, three!”

Charles motioned for a refill.

“Don’ worry,” Arthur said, getting close to Charles ear. He put a hand on his back, right over the spot he previously smacked. “I’ll wait ‘til you have three before I go any further.”

Charles nodded, feeling comfortable with Arthur’s hot breath on his skin. He drank the smooth whiskey quickly, wanting to get on the same level as Arthur.

“So tell me, Charles, why didn’t you--that lady you were talkin’ to?”

“Clara?” Charles asked. As if there was any other woman he talked to tonight.

“Yeah Clara. Why didn’t you sleep with her?”

Charles took a sip, biding his time. “I don’t know. Didn’t seem right.” He answered truthfully.

“C’mon, had to be somethin’. Tell me all about it.”

“Not much to tell. I was only up there for a few minutes.” He took a drink. “Plenty of time for you to get liquored up, it seems.”

“Was already on my way when I saw you were busy talkin’ to--to--”

“Clara.” He reiterated, smiling.

“Right, yeah. I drank the drink I got for ya.”

“You could have sat with us.”

Arthur scoffed. “Nah, she weren’t interested in me. ‘Sides, I’d hate to get in the way of any of your fun.”

Second drink down. Charles held out his drink for the third. “Hasn’t stopped you before!”

“And it probably won’t stop me in the future.” Arthur mused. “Anyway, I’ll let you drink. Then we can really have some fun.”

\--

As Charles suspected, Arthur had weird definitions of fun. Nothing like it was in Valentine. He kept demanding the piano player play something else. When the pianist asked him for suggestions, Arthur just said, “I’unno, somethin’ other than raggy-time.” The piano player ignored him after the first couple of requests.

The two of them sat down for a poker game despite neither of them having enough grasp on the rules. Eventually they tossed their cards at the effective dealer.

“Gonna go wash up,” Charles slurred, getting up from his chair.

Arthur, in the meantime, grabbed his journal. He blinked a few times, trying to get focused.

All he managed to scrawl out was:

_Ch--arls n me dirnkin -------------------------------- tmes_

Then a vague drawing of a glass. At least, a lopsided cylinder.

“What’re you working on?” Charles asked, hands still damp.

Arthur closed his book quickly, knocking over his drink in the process. “Shit--” He pulled his journal away from the mess. “M’sorry--”

“You didn’t get me, s’okay.” His eyelids were getting heavy. “What time’sit?”

Arthur squinted at his watch. “It’s uh--” He held it up to Charles. “It’s this time.”

“Two a.m.” He nodded to no one in particular. “We should go back home.”

“To camp?”

“No, to--to--horses.” Charles laughed. Arthur wheezed at the non-existent joke.

“Alright, let’s go then--” Arthur stood up a little too fast. Charles caught him, wrapping his arm around his waist.

As they stumbled out, Arthur caught a melody of the piano. “Hey that, sounds like--what’s that one song they play at camp--”

“You’d know better’n me,” Charles pushed open the doors.

“No no, you’ve heard it. It’s like--” Arthur vaguely mumbled a tune, not remembering any of the words. “‘Member?” He put his arm around Charles’ waist for stability.

Charles laughed. “Can’t say I do.”

“Agh, where’s the girls when you need ‘em? They know all ‘em…” Arthur trailed off, trying to remember more of the song. He finally found the melody again, belting it louder. All Charles could do was laugh.

It took Arthur nearly cracking his skull on the cobblestone street to focus on walking rather than singing. He was still laughing with Charles. “Make that five times ya saved me.”

“You’ll be owin’ me ‘til the day you die.” Charles chuckled.

“Wait, wait hold on,” Arthur slurred, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. He lumbered over to a narrow alleyway, practically dragging Charles with him. “You wanna smoke?”

“Sure.” He let go of him, leaning his body on the other side of the alley.

Arthur preemptively put the cigarette in his mouth, fishing for a match. “Got a light?”

Charles clumsily looked through his bag, finding nearly everything but a match.

“Never mind, got it.” Arthur said, striking the match against the brick wall behind him. He breathed out a puff of smoke as if it were a breath of fresh air. It grounded him. Charles took the cigarette from him, inhaling a desperate lung full of smoke. He coughed, smoke exiting his mouth like a dragon. “Easy!” Arthur laughed.

Charles coughed, tears welling in his eyes. “Sorry,” he choked.

“S’okay.” The cigarette burned down in Arthur’s hand.

When Charles was able to breathe again, he looked at Arthur. It might have been the first time he’d seen him truly happy, content with his night. Not weighed down by all the charades and schemes Dutch kept peddling. His goofy drunken smile made Charles feel...warm. At peace.

Arthur stubbed out the cigarette. A railcar passed by the alley. Distant sounds of a bustling city. Echoing chatter. Hooves on cobblestone. Foreign sounds, but ones that Arthur found himself more comfortable with now that he was drunk. More like past drunk, tiptoeing into how he was the night he and Lenny went drinking. He looked at Charles, swaying slightly back and forth like a boat on choppy waves.

He had to ask.

“Why didn’t you sleep with her? She seemed to like you plenty.”

Charles suddenly felt very tired. “Arthur, I told you—“

“Yeah, yeah, you changed your mind, or whatever. But lemme tell you somethin’...if I were her—“ he leaned forward a little. Charles could smell the pomade in his hair.

“What would you do?” Charles asked, taking the bait, desperately wanting to know deep down.

Arthur’s bloodshot eyes bore through Charles. “I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Charles smirked at Arthur. “S’that so?”

“Yeah.” Arthur said, looking down for a moment, still smiling at his boots. “An’ if I was— what was her name again?”

“Clara.” Charles leaned in. It felt as if the alley was closing them in on each other.

“Right, right. Clara.” He looked at Charles with heavy eyelids. “If I was her, I would—“ He stepped away from the wall, just enough to reach his hand out to touch Charles’ face. His heart was starting to pound in his chest, practically rattling his bones. If he were sober right now, he would have probably collapsed long before even getting into the alley. “I would—“ he muttered again, his fingers just brushing against Charles’ cheek. He clumsily tucked a messy lock of hair behind his ear. He suddenly felt very hot, the lights bleeding into his vision of Charles. Every sweat gland seemed to activate at once. “Oh no--” He groaned, shoving Charles out of the way as he threw up his mid-shelf whiskey. He just barely managed to miss him.

Charles laughed, starting to dry heave at the stench of puke. Arthur coughed, gasping for air. He motioned for Charles to go away. “I’ll catch up to--shit--“ There went his dinner as well. .

Charles stumbled further down the alley, only looking back to check that Arthur was still standing. He was bracing himself against the wall, heaving up any last remnants of whatever was in his stomach.

Charles was never one to lose his liquor. Not since he stole a bottle of rye from a general store back when he was fifteen. Mistakenly, he drank what he could of the bottle when he set up camp. He also threw up throughout the night, wondering how his father could have kept up with this lifestyle. That was back when he was young, more reckless, more prone to violence, much like --

Well, there was no need to dwell on that comparison.

Charles found a nice fountain in a plaza. He slumped down on the ground, resting his head on the edge of the fountain’s basin. The stars were dimmer here than they were out of the city. How disappointing.

He heard the sound of echoing footsteps approaching. Giving their uneasy rhythm, he knew who it was. He lifted his head just enough from the fountain (not exactly a great pillow) to see Arthur wiping his mouth with his rolled-down shirt sleeve. Ignoring Charles, he went practically face first into the fountain, drinking away.

“I’m not sure if that water’s clean,” Charles warned, his body too tired to move.

“We’re all gonna die from something,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough. He took one more sip from the fountain, using his hand as a makeshift cup, and swished the water in his mouth before spitting it back out again. He finally turned and slumped right next to Charles, close enough for their legs to be touching. “M’sorry about all that,” he grumbled, embarrassed to even have to apologize. Gone was the openness and happiness from earlier, instead replaced with the familiar look of pensiveness.

“S’okay,” Charles said, more than half asleep.

“I didn’t get any on ya, did I?”

“No, although it sounds like it’s a miracle you didn’t.”

“I don’t--I don’t remember even drinkin’ that much--weren’t as much as when I drank with Lenny.”

“Mm.” Charles nodded. He’d only heard about that infamous night paired with the phrase “never again.” It sounded like the parts they didn’t remember wasn’t even the worst of it. “Didn’t believe it was possible for you to drink more than tonight.”

“Me neither,” Arthur sighed, resting his head on Charles’ shoulder. The two of them quickly drifted off to sleep.

Sometime during the night, Arthur moved his head to Charles’ lap, finding it to be a more comfortable cushion than his shoulder. Charles’ hand rested on Arthur’s head.

\--

Arthur woke up to the sun beating down on his face and a cold nose touching his hand. He blinked, bleary eyed, trying to figure out what was sniffing him. It turned out to be a mangy mutt, curiously sniffing at him. Half-heartedly, he shooed away the dog. “Charles,” he grumbled, his throat sounding like it went through a meat grinder. “We gotta get up.” He shook his leg slightly, trying to wake him up. He finally looked around to see where the two of them were.

It turned out they were in a bustling market. People of all different backgrounds selling vegetables, flowers, spices, clothing, all living their life around the two of them. When Charles finally opened his eyes, becoming aware of his surroundings, the people started to look at them. Become aware of their proximity to one another. Arthur got up first, helping Charles stand as well. They shuffled out of the market, only to hear the busy plaza pick up in sound. They walked through the alley, both of them noticing Arthur’s still wet vomit on the cobblestone floor. Neither of them bothered to say anything.

The chattering and the noise of the city were like icepicks in the ears of the two men. It was hard to even think. Charles nudged Arthur, waiting to say something.

Preemptively, Arthur said, “Don’t ask me about what we’re gonna do ‘bout Midnight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can’t think right now.”

“Wasn’t gonna. I was gonna ask about food.”

Arthur’s stomach lurched at the mere thought of food, but he’d been hungover enough times in his life to know that he needed to eat something. “Could have sworn there was a cafe or inn or somethin’ nearby.”

“When you say ‘nearby’—“

“I mean within walkin’ distance.” Arthur reassured. “I don’t know how I’d be able to handle bein’ on a horse right now.” He started to laugh, only to have it form into a rough cough.

“You don’t sound so good.” Charles stated.

“Yeah, no shit.” Arthur retorted. “Need coffee...somethin’.”

“Good.” Charles said, keeping his head down, hair falling in front of his face.

They ended up finding an inn that also served food nearby, pretty close to where the night ended for them. The walk to the place took twice as long as it should have, given their current state. It was a pretty dingy eatery, but neither of them cared all that much. Arthur ordered plain as day oatmeal, and Charles a platter of eggs and fried potato slices.

It wasn’t until his second cup of strong coffee that he was able to even form his thoughts together into a cohesive order. When he was finally able to connect his thoughts to his mouth, the first thing of substance he said was, “‘M sorry, Charles.”

“Sorry about what?” Charles took a sip of coffee, staring at Arthur over the top of his mug.

“For--” He swallowed his bite of soupy oatmeal. “For last night, how I acted. Whatever I said.”

“Do you remember either of those things?” Charles asked, the details a little hazy for him. He did, however, know what Arthur was apologizing about, but was curious to see if he would admit it on his own accord.

He shook his head. “If I’m bein’ honest, lot of last night was a blur. I can only imagine I made a right fool of myself.”

“When do you not?”

Arthur smiled, taking a swig of coffee.

“Well, from what I do remember--” He motioned to Arthur with his fork. “You didn’t get in a fight last night.”

“Mm, there’s a surprise.” He scraped his spoon around his bowl. A moment passed.

“You really don’t remember anything?”

“Not much. Was pretty far gone by the time ya joined up with me again.”

Another moment passed. The server stopped by and refilled their mugs.

“You, uh, you sleep okay?” Arthur asked, moving his bowl to the edge of the table.

Charles shrugged slightly. “As good as one can sleeping against a fountain.”

“Least you weren’t in the fountain.”

“True.” He mixed the yolk with the remaining potato slices. “How about you?”

“Oh yeah, out like a light. Sorry for, well, sleepin’ on your lap.”

“It’s okay. Your head’s pretty heavy, though.”

“Lemme guess, ‘cause of my thick skull?”

“Just an observation.” He stated, taking one last sip of his coffee. He wasn’t up for playful barbs.

Arthur fished out a few dollars from his pocket, leaving them on the table. “Wanna head out?”

“Sure.”

\--

The city was always unbearably humid at this time of day, it seemed. Maybe it was the entirety of Lemoyne, where the only respite was relaxing in the shade, or by an open window. Or in an icebox. Arthur figured the humidity was what made the people of Lemoyne so hostile. If he lived here year round, he’d have the itchiest trigger finger.

Then again, that might just be the city’s effect on him.

Charles whistled for his horse. Surprisingly, they both heard urgent hoof clopping from down the street. Neither of them exactly remembered where they dropped them off. “Now can I ask about your plan with Midnight?”

Arthur scoffed. “My ‘plan?’ I ain’t Dutch. I don’t have a plan. Jus’ gonna go meet the ticket man in Rhodes if he’s seen ‘im at some point. An’ then...we’ll see.”

“‘We’ll see?’”

“Look, it’s as best as I got right now. ‘Nless you have any other ideas.”

“We could board a train to Rhodes. Get there sooner. I’m sure we still have enough money.” He flipped Taima’s reins back over her neck, giving her a pat.

Arthur thought for a moment about the two of them boarding the train, cutting their travel time to Rhodes by more than half. But, as Arthur watched Charles brush his horse and wipe some sweat from his brow, the more he realized he didn’t want this time with him to end. He wanted it to go on for twice as long as it had been. Arthur’s brain scrambled to think of a good enough excuse, embarrassed to admit that he wanted to stretch this journey out as long as possible. “Well I gotta bribe the guy in Rhodes with the rest of my money, is all. An’ I don’t want to have you pay for me again, so…” He trailed off.

“Just an idea.” Charles said, climbing on the newly brushed and fed Taima. Arthur gave Beeve an oatcake before hoisting himself on his back. “Ready to go?” He asked, sitting a little straighter in his saddle.

“Yeah,” Arthur said, letting Charles take the lead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: stabbing

Arthur slid the card of Billy Midnight under the bars at the ticket kiosk. “You seen this man? He’s s’posed to hang around the train station here.”

“Oh, I do know him.” The ticket man said in a lilting tone. “Although you just missed him.”

“What do ya mean? Where’d he go?”

Looking at the meticulous records of ticket purchases and bounty payoffs, the man said, “He left to go to Strawberry about half an hour ago.”

Arthur scoffed. _ “Strawberry? _ I thought he only stays at the train station.” 

“Normally he does. In fact, if he does ever go somewhere else, he’s normally back the next day or so.”

Arthur looked back at Charles, who was giving him an “I told you so” look.  
  
Sighing, he said, “All right, all right. I’ll come back here tomorrow for an update.”

“I’ll be here!” The man said cheerfully, sliding the card back to Arthur. 

Even though he wanted to stay on this journey, but there was no way he could go all the way to Strawberry and back in a couple of days. With or without Charles. He knew Dutch was already chomping at the proverbial bit to get him to come back _ sooner. _

Charles clicked his tongue. “Good plan.” 

“Don’t start.” Arthur sighed, putting his hat back on as they got outside.

“So what are we doing? I don’t think _ either _ of us want to go up to Strawberry, our horses included.”

“Weren’t gonna suggest that.” Arthur scratched at his chin. His beard was getting scruffier. “Look, you can--if you wanna go back to camp, I’d understand. This whole trip has been just one wild goose chase.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Ya don’t?”

“It was definitely _ more _ than one wild goose chase.”

Scoffing, Arthur pushed aside the reluctance in his voice as he asked, “Were you gonna go back to camp?”

“No,” Charles said, not leaving any space for silence. He placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Arthur thought of the saloon girl’s touch from last night. So much smaller than Charles’ hand. “I’ll stick around. Who’ll save you if I don’t?”

He tipped his head down, trying to hide his bashful smile. Charles removed his hand, Arthur longing for the touch again. “All right, then.”

“What time is it?” He asked aloud, looking over at the town clock. “Mm. Three."

“If you wanna, I dunno, go and take a real bath or somethin’, I’ll just stick around here.” He motioned to the benches behind him. “Hope I don’t see Dutch or any of the rest of the gang or else’ll never get this task done.”

“I’ll keep a low profile,” Charles said, although both of them knew he wasn’t the issue for that. 

“I’ll do the same.” Arthur went and sat down on one of the benches. He watched the townspeople in Rhodes for a while, moving through their day with a slower temperament than in St. Denis. Feeling almost at peace with it all, watching the swirling cloud of dust spin around the town, he pulled out his journal.

He saw his page from last night. He tore it out, crumpling it and tossing it into the trash can nearby. He missed, but blamed it on the slight dust storm. 

He started to write.

_ Last night Charles and I went out for a drink. Well, a few drinks. It certainly rivaled the night I had with Lenny. Although not nearly as debaucherous. At least, not what I remember. _

_ I _ do _ remember, although I hope that Charles does not, that I tried to kiss him. Earlier that night, he went upstairs with one of the girls and came back down not long after. “It didn’t feel right,” he kept saying. I cannot even admit the feelings I had when he took her upstairs, not even in this journal. The whiskey took over my brain and I did something so _ damn foolish _ , and this isn’t including the fact that I nearly threw up on him right afterward. I’ve been feigning a lack of memory of last night for my own sake. _

_ I’m amazed he’s even talking to me today. Or that he even _ wants _ to be around me still. _

Arthur loosely sketched out the scene from inside the St. Denis saloon. When he was holding two drinks, watching Charles and Clara talk. At least he _ thought _ that was her name. He marked the page with the journal’s ribbon, closing it as he leaned back on the bench. He tipped his hat over his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

\--

He awoke to the feeling of someone kicking his boots. “Arthur.” Charles said, “Get up.”

“‘M up, ‘m up.” He groaned, stretching his arms up over his head. He peeked at Charles from under the brim of his hat, noticing his wet hair and different outfit. “Buy new clothes?” He was wearing a vest with turquoise beads accenting the front of it. His burgundy shirt underneath was slightly unbuttoned and disheveled, no doubt because of the humidity. Arthur pulled his eyes away from the sight of his chest peeking through his shirt. 

“No, I finally had a chance to change into them.” He wiped his hands down the front of his pants. “Although with all the dust, maybe there wasn’t much of a point.”

“Mm, still better’n wearing the same outfit day in and day out.”

“Oh, like you?”

“I have different shirts.”

“If you say so. This is the second shirt I’ve seen you wear since I joined you on this trip.”

“Like you said--” He stood from the bench, slinging his satchel around his shoulder. “Haven’t had time to change.”

Charles made a slight face, but still couldn’t help but smile. “Do you need anything while we’re here?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nah, let’s go find a place to camp.”

They whistled for their horses.

\--

The two of them set up camp just as the sun escaped them once again. They picked a spot _ just _ far enough away from camp so they still felt they were on their journey. “Can you start the fire this time?” Charles asked, getting his bedroll from Taima. 

“Sure.” Arthur scrounged up some kindling and stray logs, easy enough to find in the dry plains. He cultivated a fire quickly enough, feeding it until it was able to survive on its own. He looked through his saddle bag. “What do ya want to eat?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Still have some of those venison slabs.” He pulled a couple out, wrapped in wax paper. It felt like they went hunting ages ago. “Probably should eat them up soon.”

“Maybe have that and some beans.” Charles stroked his chin. “You have any spices?”

Balancing the venison and beans in one arm, he found some dried rosemary. “Got this rosemary here. Might be some more ‘round these parts. Unless you don’t --”

“Rosemary’s fine.” Charles motioned for Arthur to bring him the food. “Were you just gonna cook it on your knife?”

“Prolly. Unless you have a--” He made a horizontal move with his hand. “A grate or somethin’ to go over the fire.”

Charles laughed. “No, I can’t say I have a ‘grate.’”

“You know what I _ mean _.” Arthur felt his ears getting hot, still not figuring out the word he was looking for.

They opened their cans of beans, placing them close enough near the fire so they could heat up some. Then they cooked their rosemary steaks over the fire. 

They ate in silence, both of them too focused on trying to balance the steak from sliding off the knife. The crickets were starting to come out.

When their beans were heated up well enough, then Charles broke the silence. “Where did you learn how to draw?” 

“Dunno,” Arthur held his can of beans around the rim, the bottom still hot from the fire. “I guess I didn’t really learn anywhere.” He thought back when he was a teenager, looking at the picture book illustrations that Dutch and Hosea got for him. “Guess it started around when Hosea was teachin’ me how to read.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. I’d draw in between the spaces on the page of things I saw in front of me.” Arthur shook his head slightly, a little embarrassed to be talking about this. “Then ‘round my birthday, Hosea got me a journal. Mostly I used it in the beginning to practice my alphabet and things like that, but then I used it to practice drafting. Helped in keepin’ me busy when we had to do stake-outs.”

Charles took one last sip of beans, hitting the bottom of the can as he tried to get them all. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he asked, “How old were you when Dutch and Hosea took you in?”

“Around fifteen, sixteen. Before then, I was just--”

“--Surviving?” Charles finished, knowing that way of life all too well.

“Yeah.” He tossed his empty can of beans out into the tall grass. “Stuck around my dad too long after my mom died.”

Charles nodded, understanding that feeling, running his thumb over his knuckles. 

“The only good thing my dad did for me was die. Wish he died sooner.” Arthur sighed, looking out at the quickly fading sunset. 

“Why do you have a picture of him next to your bed?”

Arthur considered it for a moment. “It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t have it up. He was a miserable goddamn bastard, but he was still my old man.” 

“Taking the good with the bad.”

“Somethin’ like that.” He sighed. “Although I should’ve ran away as soon as she died. I guess I’m just too much of a fool to know when to run.”

A pause. 

“I ran away.” Charles stoked at the fire. “When I was thirteen.”

Arthur looked back at Charles, who was still staring absently at the fire. “Really?”

Nodding, he continued. “My father fought in the war, although it wasn’t his choosing, as you could imagine. He...he told me he saw all of his friends die alongside him. It was some sort of miracle that he made it out alive. He met my mother shortly after the war, then they had me.”

Arthur thought back to the picture on Charles’ makeshift nightstand back at camp. The two of them sitting perfectly still, with him in his mother’s lap.

“We lived with my tribe for years, probably until I was about twelve.” He scraped a twig into the ground, drawing a circle. “The army came and ransacked the camp.”

“Jesus, Charles--”

“My mother was kidnapped a year later. I...I don’t want to imagine what happened to her.”

The silence hung in the air like an anvil. Charles threw the twig into the fire.

“My father resorted to drinking himself to death. And then...then I ran away.”

Arthur watched the small movements on his face, illuminated by the crackling fire. His eyes shined a little.  
  
“Been on the run ever since.” He sighed. “I don’t want you to take pity on me.”

“I don’t. Charles, I--” He stopped, trying to find the right words. He wanted to touch him, to hold him. He thought of the only thing he could say in that moment: “Thank you for telling me.”

Smiling slightly, he said, “Thank you for listening.”

“Any time.” He stood up, not knowing how to end this conversation. “Gotta take a piss.”

Charles laughed and shook his head. “You have such a way with words, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur smirked, walking off into the darkness. He decided to go closer to the patch of woods near their camp, just in case he needed to do anything more than piss.

As he relieved himself, he heard quiet whisperings in the woods. He shook himself and zipped up his pants, sneaking to a nearby tree. He peeked out to see a clearing in the woods. A man was standing near a number of other men. “Were you followed?” He asked nervously.

“No sir.” One of the men answered.

”You better not have been. We have even _ less _ members than our last meeting.” The man turned the knob up on his oil lamp.

Arthur’s eyes widened.

The men were all wearing long white cloaks. 

He managed to sneak away, then booked it back to camp. 

“Charles, Charles!” Arthur said in a hushed tone. He haphazardly kicked at the fire, putting it out with the dirt.  
  
“What the hell’s the--”

He pointed back at the patch of trees frantically. “There’s Klan members in there!”  
  
Charles gave him a look. “You’re sure?”

“Unless there’s a new style of white hoods and robes, ‘m absolutely positive.” Arthur went and grabbed his repeater from Beeve. “There’s only a few men, five at the most. We can take ‘em.”

“All right.” Charles stood, checking to see if his shotgun was loaded. He took off his vest, tossing it on his bedroll.  
  
“You gettin’ changed?”

“Don’t want blood on my vest.”

“Fair enough.”

They kept low to the ground, holding their holsters so it wouldn’t rattle when they moved. “Surprised there’s still Klan members willing to show their faces.” Charles said with disgust.

“Didn’t they disband like…twenty somethin’ years ago?”

“Hatred like that will always be around, Arthur. You know that.” He said sternly.

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

The two of them snuck over to the edge of the woods. Arthur’s hand hovered over his revolver, his repeater still strapped to his back. Charles grabbed Arthur’s hand, halting him. “Wait--”

“Charles, if you’re _ really _ gonna stop me from killin’--”

“Of _ course _ not.” He flicked his eyes over to the robed men, then back to Arthur. “Use your knife.”

“I like the way you think, Mr. Smith.” Arthur grinned. “It’s your call when.”

Charles surveyed the layout of the meeting. Four men, brandishing torches, one man preaching. He tried not to pay attention to what he was saying, but it was a mish-mash of every racial epithet he’s been called throughout his life. “No masks,” Charles whispered as a command. “I want them to see their killers.”

Arthur couldn’t help but get excited at the way he said that. He gripped the handle of his knife. He nodded at Charles.

Charles crept a little bit closer to the clearing in the woods, holding his knife a little higher. He yelled, attacking the leader first. He shoved the knife straight into his larynx, then again in his jugular. The blood from the man’s throat turned his cloak red. 

“Holy _ shit _, what’s that n—” Arthur came out from behind the tree, stabbing the man twice in the heart. He grabbed at the other man who was trying to get away. Grabbing at his cloak, he stabbed him in the back. One time, two times, three times. The man stopped moving.

Charles had the other man pinned down. He drove the knife into his chest. The last man was trying to sneak up on Charles, brandishing a knife. Arthur ran and tackled him, slitting his throat as soon as he got the chance. 

When the gurgling stopped from underneath him, Arthur got up and gasped out, “Mark the life saving tally to one for me.” He grabbed Charles’ hand, pulling him up. 

The two of them panted for a moment, looking at the bloodshed. The smell of blood and burning flesh from the cast off torches filled their nostrils. Arthur couldn’t help but look at Charles, his hair messy. A slight sheen of sweat covered his face. Some blood was speckled across his cheek and clothes. 

In Arthur’s keyed-up state, he wanted to lick it off of him. He tore his eyes away. “Gonna see if they have anything.”  
  
“All right.” Charles used a discarded hood to wipe off his knife. 

Arthur searched around, only finding stray change. He did, however, find a letter that the leader had in his pocket. 

_ Dear son, _

_ I find it to truly be a shame in the way you insulted your mother and I the last time we saw you. You belittled us, basing our belief in supporting the Union in a war that has long since ended a true “misjudgement” in our own intelligence -- _

“Did you find something?” Charles called out. He was resting against a tree a little ways away from the carnage, wiping off his face with his sleeve.

Arthur crumpled up the letter, throwing it back on the man’s chest. “No, just trash.” He walked past Charles, but he stopped him. 

“Wait,” he said, grabbing his arm. The warmth from his hand did its best to quell his nerves. “You have some blood on your face.” He reached out, wiping his loose sleeve against Arthur’s cheek. 

They were as close as they were last night. Arthur’s nerves were on fire, adrenaline still rushing through him. He closed his hand around the other man’s wrist, stopping the movement against his cheek. Moving his hand up from Charles’ wrist, he interlocked their fingers, pressing the soft pads of their palms together. “_ Charles-- _” He strained, the words getting caught in his throat. 

Arthur pressed his lips to his, no longer capable of speaking in that moment.

Charles made a surprised sound, but didn’t push away. Didn’t loosen the grip of their interlaced fingers. Arthur kept his lips closed, unmoving, fearful of stopping. Fearful of retaliation. Fearful of ending up like the bodies behind him.

Charles’ other hand slid to Arthur’s back, gripping at his shirt. Arthur’s thumb stroked at the scar on Charles’ cheek, that same scar he’d been so enamored with for so long. He followed the divot in his face down to his jawline. His lips softened, just enough for them to kiss more gently.

It _ had _ to be like this. Not in a romantic setting, not drunkenly in an alleyway in the city, not in the cornfields, not in a stranger’s cabin, not while avoiding gators in the swamp. It needed to be after something to give Arthur the necessary push he needed. Even if that “necessary push” was killing Klansmen. It was all the same to him. Violent, brutal, unexpected.

Charles broke the kiss, leaning back against the tree. “Arthur--” He said quietly.

“Please don’t...say anything. I just--” He ducked his head down, staring at the ground, clenching his jaw. “I just wanted, _ needed--“ _

“It’s okay.” Charles said softly. He placed his hand to the front of his chest, placating him. “Let’s go back to camp.”

Arthur let out a long sigh, fearing the worst from Charles but only getting kindness. How it had always been between them. “Is the smell of dead bodies givin’ you a headache as well?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

The two of them walked back, walking close enough for their knuckles to brush every few steps. Arthur felt a lightness in his step, almost like he was floating. He felt so foolish, being so giddy about the slightest touch from him. 

Charles looked over at him, noticing his smile. The same smile he had last night when they were in that alley, sharing a cigarette. It felt like a lifetime ago already. “We should probably find some more firewood.”

“Yeah, since I kind of ruined the last bit of kindling.”

“It was for a good enough reason.”

Arthur smiled. “Yeah.”

For their short jaunt back to the camp, they grabbed assorted logs, dried grass, twigs, anything that could restart their fire. Arthur volunteered to restart it, since he was the culprit for it going out in the first place. 

“Your shirt,” Charles motioned to him, getting enough of a glimpse as he struck the flint together, sparking. 

Arthur didn’t say anything, waiting for the kindling to set. He got low to the ground, blowing at the dried grass. The fire took, soon spreading to the wood. Touching his chest, he knew what Charles was remarking upon. His striped shirt was soaked with blood. Charles was right to keep his red shirt on, although he seemed to fare better in terms of messiness. Arthur unbuttoned his shirt, balling it up and tossing it into the fire. “Not even Miss Grimshaw could get those bloodstains out.”

Charles took a sip from his canteen. “Your union suit--”

Arthur pressed his hand to his chest, a still-wet blood stain across the front. He groaned. “Now what _ is _ it with me n’ gettin’ blood on my underwear?” 

“Just your talent.” Charles smirked. “It’s not as bad as your other one was up in the mountains.”

Arthur tried to wring the spot of blood out of the fabric. He wiped his bloody hands against the grass. “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

A pause. The elephant was in the proverbial room, neither of them not knowing where to start. How to address what happened?

“About earlier--” “What happened--” They both started to say, then stopped, chuckling. “Go on.” “You go.”

There was a silent stand off between them. Arthur started, finally. “Can I...can I sit by you?”

Charles scooted over on his bedroll, inviting Arthur over.

Arthur, half dressed in his jeans and his union suit, crawled around the other side of the fire. Sitting on the very end of the bedroll, still a good arms length from Charles. He pulled up his sleeves. Charles noticed his hands shaking, but didn’t call attention to them. Sighing, he sat cross-legged, staring at the fire.

“I’d never--” he cleared his throat, it suddenly feeling very dry, “--done that before.”

“What, you mean kissed someone?” Charles smiled softly, leaning back on the heels of his palms.

A slight smile appeared on Arthur’s face, then vanished. “You know what I mean.” He tucked his head into his chest a little more, looking down at his hands, still stained with blood. “Though even then, that’s been a while, too.” He said it lowly, almost like a whisper.

Charles wanted, no, _ needed _, to know. “How long?”

Arthur was quiet for a long stretch of time. He tried to think of when he last kissed someone. Pressed his lips against theirs, put his calloused hands on their face, felt their body pressed up against his own, leaving him breathless. Until Charles, all of those things felt like a distant memory, never a possibility to happen again. “A _ long _ time. Honestly can’t remember.”

Charles clicked his tongue, his chest aching slightly. If he knew Arthur even just _ slightly _ , he knew it wasn’t from a lack of interest. He noticed the way women looked at him, but he seemed oblivious to how people perceived him. Maybe he just shut off that part of his life, not wanting to return to it? “Has it been _ years _?”

“Mm,” Arthur rubbed at his chin. “Maybe.”

“...I see.”

A pause. The fire crackled. A distant owl hooted.

“Have you ever _ thought _about being with--”

Arthur made a non-committal noise. “Maybe once or twice. Certainly got some indications from some men, but I was always too scared of the consequences. ‘Fraid I’d end up in a ditch somewhere all because I weren’t thinking right.” Arthur finally looked up from his hands, over to Charles. “Have, uh, have you thought of--or, or have you been--” He trailed off, embarrassed to be asking something so personal. Charles was wondering if he was already having second thoughts about what happened earlier.

Charles thought for a moment. “A couple of times. I kissed one of the boys my age in the reservation. It wasn’t really--” He furrowed his brow. “It was a curiosity thing, mostly. We wanted to know what it felt like.” It was obvious that the way he said it was more of a confession. “After running away, I was too worried about dying to consider what I was interested in.”

“I know how that is,” Arthur sighed. The concept of experimentation at a young age, especially with a trusted friend, was foreign to him. For his seventeenth birthday, Dutch paid for a girl as a gift. It was uncomfortable, to put it mildly. For him, it was nerve-wracking, and for her it was disappointing. Fortunately for both of them, it was over quickly. Arthur remembered mumbling a “thank you” to the lady before exiting the room. 

He remembered the look of pride on Dutch’s face as he got back to their table. “Another round!” He shouted, clapping Arthur hard on the shoulder. “My son just became a _ man _!” Arthur ended up throwing up in the spitoon after the next shot. Going to the saloon wasn’t really a regular occurrence after that. Not for a while, anyway.

When he did start going back, after Mary finally called off their engagement, he remembered a man sidling up to him at the bar, giving him half lidded eyes. Asking if he wanted a friend. Although he was older but not much wiser, he considered his company. He didn’t follow through with the invitation, fearing that he’d be beaten to a pulp for being something he wasn’t sure he even _ was-- _

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Arthur?” Charles asked.

Arthur blinked a few times. “Sorry, I was--I was just thinking.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mm. Good and bad. Mostly bad.”

Charles nodded. He threw another log onto the fire, staring at it for a while before turning back to Arthur. “How long have you wanted this?”

The question knocked the air out of him. “What?”

“You know what I mean. How long have you thought about this?” He motioned between the two of them.

The truth stayed lodged in his throat, only managing to eke out, “A while.”

“Mm.” He didn’t seem satisfied with just that for an answer. “Before last night?”

Arthur nodded slightly.

“Before I saved your life for the fourth time? Perhaps the third time?”

Arthur sighed, wanting to curl in on himself.

“Before I took care--”

“_ Charles _, are you tryin’ to make me die of embarrassment?”

Shaking his head, his hair shimmering in the firelight, he said, “No, just trying to figure out when you started to feel this way. I honestly can’t tell with you.”

“Not like you’re any more clear.” Arthur muttered. His stomach was doing flips.

“Maybe so.” Charles scooted a little closer to him. “Was it before this trip?”

“Charles, _ please _\--” Arthur wasn’t used to this insistence from him. Maybe he felt more comfortable with prodding him gently towards the truth.

“Just want to know.”

“I just-- I can’t just _ tell _ ya--” Arthur sputtered, a smile growing on his face. His cheeks were warm.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you when it first crossed my mind?”

“I’d feel _ better _ if ya stopped askin’ me,” he spat a little too forcefully. He instantly regretted his tone. He wasn’t sure exactly why he felt so uncomfortable about all this, the constant nudges for him to admit his feelings. Then again, he was more a man of action, not exactly explanation. He wasn’t sure if that was something that Dutch brought out of him or if it was inherent to him. 

Frankly, he was still coming to terms with the fact that he _ kissed _ someone. Not just someone, but Charles. And that the other man reciprocated in his actions. It was one thing to kiss someone, but to have to _ discuss _ their truths afterwards? That wasn’t exactly something he was used to. Even with Mary, when he proposed to her, he was stoic. He “put on airs,” as Dutch called it when he dressed up to go on dates with her. It was a routine. A facade. Not his true self. Much of his life had been compartmentalized in playing roles. Acting like a tough outlaw, a gentleman, a ruthless gunslinger, a fool. All of those parts he played were only pieces of what kind of a person he really was. 

Charles saw all of these pieces of him and _ still _ kissed him. Still stayed by his side. Never before had someone seen him be so nakedly himself. It _ terrified _ him. What terrified him more was confronting his feelings toward Charles, needing to articulate them out loud. Maybe if he had it his way, this secret would have died with him. And yet...he couldn’t keep these feelings inside. 

This trip seemed like a fever dream. A beautiful, terrifying, wonderful fever dream.

They sat in silence. Arthur moved closer to Charles. “You, uh, you remember the cornfields?”

Charles looked over at him, confused at first. Then he realized what he meant. “That was--”

“The first time ya saved me.” He smiled a little. “Then you did this--” He reached out to touch his two fingertips, still stained with blood, against Charles’ neck. 

Charles’ eyes went from Arthur’s eyes, to his fingers, then back to his eyes. “That’s what did it.”

“Yeah.” Arthur rested his forehead against Charles’. He closed his eyes. “I want to kiss you again.”

“Then do it.” Charles smiled, amused by his timidness. A man who could rip a man’s chest open without batting an eye, and yet he was too bashful to kiss him without stating his intention. 

Their lips met again, picking up where they left off last time. Gone was the tight-lipped discomfort from Arthur, settling into the more natural method of kissing. Deciding to try something out, Charles tentatively stuck his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur made a sound, pulling away for a second. “_ Tongue _ ,” he said dumbly, somehow forgetting that could be an element in this. It really _ had _ been that long. Charles laughed, tugging Arthur back into the kiss. 

They fell back into the pattern, their tongues tentatively pressing against one another. Arthur felt emboldened to open his mouth a little more, his hand pressing against his chest. His hand made a fist, grabbing his shirt. How desperately he wanted to touch his bare skin, feel his hands running over the slopes and angles of his body. How he wanted to feel Charles’ mouth on him, on all the places he’d neglected for so long. How he wanted to make Charles feel the same thing. He held onto what little bit of self control he had.

It was a strange thing, wanting someone and having them want you back at the same time. Arthur wasn’t exactly familiar with that.

Before anything got too intense, Arthur pulled away, just far enough to see where they ended up. Charles was lying down on the bedroll, hair tangled in Arthur’s fingers. Arthur had one of his legs slotted between Charles’, a welcome and exhilarating heat. Arthur sat back, taking in the view. He was breathing hard.

“Sorry,” he said, “I need to--it’s been a long time.” He felt like an idiot, sputtering out excuses.

Charles propped himself up onto his elbows. “It’s okay, Arthur.” He looked around, just barely able to make out the silhouettes of trees and horses in the faint moonlight. “I wasn’t expecting anything more.” A pause. “Well, we’re kind of out in the open anyway--”

“You got that right.” Arthur crawled do the sliver of bedroll that Charles wasn’t using. He scooted over, not exactly having enough room. They faced each other, practically sleeping in the dirt. “Too lazy to get my bedroll.” He huffed out a laugh. 

“I’ll get it--”

Arthur stopped him. “Ya don’t have to. It weren’t a command, or something.” Laziness aside, Arthur finally got up to get his bedroll. He put it right next to Charles’ bed. 

“You gettin’ tired?” Charles asked.  
  
Arthur shrugged, unbuttoning his trousers. “You?”

“S’pose so.” He put his hands behind his head, looking up at the sky. All the stars were out, much brighter than they were in the city. “I don’t even know what time it is.”

“I don’t _ wanna _ know what time it is.” He laid down next to him, his hands across his stomach.

He smiled. “Me neither.” 

Arthur sighed contentedly, focusing on Charles’ level breathing. He was, maybe for the first time in months, truly happy. Charles untucked one of his hands, motioning him closer. Arthur rested his head in the crook of Charles’ neck.

The two of them fell asleep in that position, underneath the twinkling stars.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: a gross sentence of Billy Midnight post-shooting

Charles woke up at the break of dawn with a numb arm. He wasn’t lying when he told Arthur his head was heavy. Flexing his hand a few times, just to make sure his arm wasn’t dead, he moved out from under the dense weight of Arthur’s head. The man didn’t stir awake. He felt the feeling of millions of little pinpricks and waking nerves worked through his fingertips. He moved his fingers, regaining dexterity. When his arm felt like a part of him and not just a numb dead weight, he looked back at Arthur. He looked peaceful, although kind of funny when he slept. His mouth was open slightly and he snored softly. Charles smiled all the same. 

Despite the arm numbness, he couldn’t remember the last time he slept so soundly. No nightmares, no jolting awake, no cold sweat. Truly a unique experience in that it wasn’t unique at all. He slept like a baby.

The patch of woods were still smoking slightly, although it didn’t look like anything caught fire. Surely the dew and the humidity helped that. 

He thought about last night, the thrill he got killing the Klansmen. 

He thought about the kiss.

Perhaps, in hindsight, he wondered about how Arthur felt about him. He noticed the lingering looks, the brush of their fingertips when they passed a cigarette back and forth. Originally, he chalked it up to the typical closeness the other camp members had. The physical connection between the men that wasn’t inherently romantic. Sharing beds, drinks, cigarettes, prolonged arm-in-arm stances, the proximity to one another around the fire. Not to mention the times he saw all the men naked while they were changing, or how he bathed around them, or went skinny dipping with them. A few times, he caught Dutch and Hosea holding hands late at night, but he wasn’t quite sure how to define a touch like that. There was a comradery between friends, touches that weren’t considered anything but platonic. No loaded meaning behind any of the actions. Charles, in nearly a year since joining the Van der Linde gang, became used to these physical ways of communicating after a lifetime of, well, _ not _.

When he and Arthur were in the cornfields, seemingly centuries ago, he thought nothing of how he touched his neck. How his fingertips brushed the slightest bit against Arthur’s ropeburn, a test to feel the rawness on his skin. When he saw the way that Arthur reacted to it, flinching, practically _ recoiling _ , he decided not to touch him without him doing so first. It wasn’t until very recently, as in last night, that he realized a small gesture was something that was loaded to Arthur. Maybe he himself didn’t realize this until Charles put his fingers to his neck.   
  
He didn’t touch him, not as deliberately, but things kept _ happening _. They developed a comfort with this very casual touch of the fingertips, of pats on the back, of prolonged stares. All of these little moments, little connections, didn’t add up in Charles’ head until they were in St. Denis. When he looked down at Clara, with her smooth skin, her heaving bosom, her heat pressed against the front of his pants, he realized she wasn’t the person he wanted. The one he wanted was downstairs, drinking mid-shelf whiskey like it was water. And, even then, he wasn’t sure how to express all of this. And then Arthur tried to kiss him, which quickly turned into Arthur trying not to throw up on him. 

He thought back to last night, how he closed in on Arthur, wiping his sleeve against his face, feeling the heat spread through the fabric. It was no more bold or tender of a move that Arthur pulled the night before in the alley, how he tucked a lock of hair behind Charles’ ear. Even before then at the start of the attack, he saw how Arthur looked at him. With reverence, as if he were a work of art. The most wonderful man he’d ever met. When they stared at each other, standing around the cloaked bodies, panting as if they ran a race, Charles couldn’t help but think about all the things he wanted to do to Arthur. Despite his want, he knew this had to be something Arthur decided, as he figured out back in the cornfields. All Charles had to do was lean in, to propel his want. Charles kept replaying the kiss in his mind, thinking about the desperation in Arthur’s motions, too afraid to change what he was doing, the shaking in his hands.

Arthur stirred awake with a slight groan. Charles looked back to find him stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “Mornin’,” he said, slowly propping himself up on one forearm, then sitting upright. 

“Mornin’.”   
  
“Did I -- what time is it?”   
  
Charles fished out his watch. “It’s a little after seven.”

He nodded, knitting his brows together. “Train station’s probably open now.”

Back to business. Charles was almost a little disappointed. “Does Midnight seem like the kind of guy who’d be back first thing?” 

“Prolly not, but I don’t wanna risk it.” Arthur stood, knees cracking. He went to dig out a shirt from Beeve’s saddlebag. Since, well, his shirt from last night was now ash. He pulled out a dark green button-up, patched at the elbows. It looked like he sewed them in himself. That, or he put Miss Grimshaw up to the task.

It gave Charles the impetus to do the same. His red shirt was crispy with dried blood. He pulled out his white button-up, surprised it was still pretty white after all it’d been through. 

“Did you sleep well?” Arthur asked as he was rolling up his sleeves.   
  
Charles nodded. He slung his vest over his shirt. “You?”

“Best I’ve slept in years.” Arthur smiled at him. “Had a pretty nice pillow last night.”

“Yeah, shocked my arm still works.” 

“_ What--oh _, my head. Heh, sorry.” Charles noticed his face turn a little red. All he could do was smile at his slight embarrassment. “I, uh, I’ll be careful to use a pillow next time.”

Charles tilted his head. “A ‘next time.’” 

“Un--unless ya don’t wanna--” 

“Probably not at camp, but that doesn’t mean ‘no.’”

Ah, right. _ Camp _ . “Understandable. Well, maybe if Boy Calloway needs any more fellers _ interviewed _\--”

Charles smiled, getting his bedroll situated onto his saddle. 

\--

“Hello again!” The ticket seller greeted in an all too chipper way. 

“Mornin’, you heard anything about Midnight?”

The man checked the schedule. “Funny you should mention him,” despite it not being that funny, as the two of them were here the day before, “I got word that Midnight left late last night.”

“Around midnight?” Charles asked drolly. 

“Yes, actually.” He pointed at the departure time. “Last train out of Strawberry.”

“When will he be back in Rhodes, mister?”

The man looked at his stopwatch. “There’s a good chance he’ll be back within the next hour or two.”

Arthur turned to Charles. “What do you wanna do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean--” He looked back at the man in the kiosk, then back to Charles. He motioned with his head to go to a spot where the man couldn’t see them. They met in the corner, standing much closer. “I mean ya don’t have to wait with me.”

“I know that,” Charles answered a little indignantly. “I want to wait with you.”

Arthur scoffed, deflecting. “I can’t believe you want to sit in this dusty ol’ train station with me.”

Charles smiled. “Someone’s got to watch out for Midnight in case you fall asleep.”

Laughing because of the truth in that, Arthur placed a hand on Charles’ shoulder. He squeezed. 

The doors to the station opened, a family coming through. The two men separated from the corner. Arthur moved to a bench and Charles to the bulletin. Figuring he had some time to himself, he dug out his journal. It felt like it had been ages since he wrote anything in it, despite his last entry being from yesterday morning. He licked his thumb, now scabbed over completely, and turned the page. 

_ Lot has happened since yesterday. Feels like my whole life has changed. I _ _ kissed Charles__. And he _ _ kissed me back.__ It felt unlike any other kiss I’ve had in my life, or maybe that was just me forgetting about how it was to kiss someone like that. Even now, I can’t seem to get my stomach to settle down. _

_ We kissed among a bunch of Klansmen we killed. Maybe us killing them sons of bitches made us bolder in our feelings. Seeing Charles like that, covered in blood, just...changed me. _

_ The two of us talked about a lot last night, some things I never even wrote down, much less thought about. I slept right next to him, under the stars. It was an experience almost too beautiful for an ugly fool like me. _

_ We’re at the train station now, waiting for Midnight. He’s the last one of the gunslingers. _

_ Guess all good things have come to an end. _

He flipped back to the unfinished drawing of Charles, finally not embarrassed to look at it too long. It felt easy to loosely sketch the outline of his shoulders, his chest. He dotted his shirt to look like the one he wore often, the one Arthur was most fond of. He dug his pencil to try and make his hair darker, to no avail. As he lightly shaded the wrinkles of Charles’ shirt, he looked up to find his subject standing right in front of him. Arthur closed his book shut, startled.   
  
“What were you drawing?” Charles asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nothin’, just passin’ time.” Arthur shoved his book back into his bag. His ears were hot.

Charles laughed quietly. “If you say so.” He held out a piece of paper to Arthur. 

  
“What’s this?”

“Found it on the bulletin. I thought you’d be interested in it.”

“S’that so?” Arthur took the paper, reading it. 

_ HUNTERS SOUGHT! _

_ If you are proficient with a gun or arrow, we seek animals for a Wildlife Art Exhibition _.

_ Specimens must be in _ _ PERFECT CONDITION. _

_ LOW CALIBER KILLS ONLY. _

_ Ship at our expense-- _

Arthur read the list of animals. “Well, Charles, I think this’s more your thing.” He passed it back.

Charles sighed, muttering, “you fool,” under his breath. “I think you should keep it on hand.” He insisted. Sitting down next to Arthur, keeping an eye if there was anyone close enough to hear them, he whispered, “In case you want an excuse to leave camp for a while.”

“Ahh,” said Arthur, embarrassingly not understanding the fact that Charles was planting the seeds for their next trip. “Well, in that case--” He folded up the paper, setting it right next to his journal. 

He checked the clock in the station. A little more than half an hour until the train arrived. Arthur slumped down in the bench. He turned toward Charles, touching the tip of his boot with his own. Charles, in turn, pressed his boot upwards, an acknowledgement of the gesture. No one else around took notice.

“Lemme know when the train gets here.” Arthur pulled his hat down over his eyes, trying to get comfortable.

“You’re really going to take a nap.” Charles deadpanned. 

Arthur shrugged. “Figured this’ll be the last time I’ll be able to rest before getting wrapped up in Dutch’s schemes again.”

“It probably will be,” Charles said to himself, quiet enough for Arthur to barely hear it. 

\--

The train’s whistle did its part in waking Arthur up. He ran out of the station, straightening his hat, trying to look awake. He slapped his face a few times as an attempt to get out of his rested state. Charles followed him, waiting further down on the train platform, arms folded. He should have asked Arthur to see the card again, although with a former gunslinger, there was probably still a hint of panache in Midnight’s style of dress and mannerisms. He’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb, especially in a place like Rhodes.

As people started to shuffle off the train, Arthur pushed his way on. “S’cuse me, pardon me, sorry ma’am.” He walked down the cars, trying to act casual.

Charles was up further, looking over people that passed him. No one that looked like Midnight just yet. He got to the train’s bar first. Sure enough, the souse was at the bar, head down low. He was dressed in a blue suit, which was wrinkled and certainly dirty. “Mr. Midnight,” Charles greeted.

Billy glanced at him briefly. “Please, I just want to enjoy my drink.”

“I mean no trouble, sir.” He stepped around to the other side. The train jolted to a start. Charles grabbed onto the bar for stability. “I just want to ask you a few questions about when you were a gunslinger.”

Billy’s head snapped up from the bar. “Listen, I didn’t do nothin’! I didn’t shoot him in his sleep!” He backed away from Charles. 

“I don’t care _ who _ you shot in your sleep, I just wanna ask about Jim ‘Boy’ Calloway!” Charles’ patience was wearing thin.

“Stay back! Get away from me!” He knocked over one of the nearby chairs, making a run for it.   
  
Charles sighed, then hopped over the chair to run after him. “Arthur, he’s coming your way!”

Midnight pushed right beside him, causing Arthur to fall into a woman’s lap. She gasped, causing Arthur to whisper his apologies to her, and got up quickly. He wove through the cars, catching up to Billy in no time. “Leave me alone!”

Arthur was about to catch him, just inches away from grabbing his coattails, but then--

Midnight climbed up to the top of the train. Arthur groaned, looking back for Charles.

Charles was hanging outside the previous car. “You aren’t seriously going to--”

Arthur climbed up the ladder. 

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. He admired his tenacity just as much as his stupidity.

“Mr. Midnight, I just wanna talk! Don’t do somethin’ _ foolish _ !” Arthur called out over the clacking of the train tracks and the rustling wind. He held out his arms for balance, trying not to look down.   
  
Midnight turned around. “You come for me? Then come on!” Arthur saw his hand go over to his revolver. 

Shaking his head slightly, he drew his own gun from his holster. He, like the other men he had to kill, was too quick on the draw. He shot Billy’s hand, causing him to cry out and drop his gun. He looked at the wound, pouring blood on the train car, then looked up again, a sly grin on his face. 

WIth his good hand, he pulled out a different gun. He pointed it to his head, laughing maniacally. “Don’t miss!” He yelled, putting the barrel of the gun into his mouth. He pulled the trigger. 

“_ Jesus _!” Arthur yelled, looking away for a second. He braced himself for the scene. 

It was worse than he was expecting. He wasn’t expecting to see someone’s tongue hanging out their jawbone today, but...this was his life. He pulled out his camera, quickly snapping a picture. As he slowly turned to make his way back down to the cabin, he saw his gun on the ground. It was sitting in a pool of blood. Arthur picked it up anyway. It was a customized Mauser pistol, with intricate floral engravings near the trigger. He wrapped it in his ripped bandana (he needed a new one anyway, sentimentality be damned), making a mental note to clean it later. Maybe he’ll give it to Charles as a gift for putting up with him. 

He carefully climbed down the ladder, finding Charles in one of the first class seats. “Think we can jump off this thing?”

Charles laughed. “And _ live _? Not a chance.”

Arthur shook his head. He wiped the blood onto his pants. “You wanna get somethin’ to eat?”

“Do you have any money?” 

“I could go back up and check if Billy--” 

“Arthur--”

“I’m jus’ messin.” He patted Charles on the shoulder, trying not to linger in his touch. “I think I have a few bucks to spare.”

“I do too.” 

They went back into the meal car, finding the cheapest thing on the menu. It was between oatmeal or soup. Both of them chose oatmeal. 

“S’cuse me,” Arthur said to the man who gave them their food. “Where’s the next stop on this train?” 

“To St. Denis, sir.” The man responded.

Arthur made a face, but only Charles seemed to find his reaction funny.   
  
After the man left, Arthur leaned in and whispered, “We catch the next train to Rhodes, get our horses, an’ go back to camp.”

Charles took a bite of oatmeal. “Sounds like a plan.”

Arthur looked out the window, out at the swamps of Lemoyne. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to get any pesky oatmeal from sticking to his gums. He felt Charles eyes on him. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“Ah, nothin’ important.”

“Sure looks important to me.”

He sighed, returning back to his oatmeal. “It’s gonna be weird goin’ back.”

“Why do you say that?”

He took a big bite of his meal, giving himself some time to think about it. “Guess I’m jus’ worried I’ll have missed a buncha stuff in my absence.”

Charles scoffed. “I doubt it. If anything, nothing will have changed _ because _ you were gone.”

“Oh, c’mon--”

“I’m serious. You’re more important to the gang than you think.” He put his boot on top of Arthur’s. Arthur pressed his foot up against his boot. He hoped this would be a subtle way of how they could show affection, since hand holding for the most part was out of the picture. But if Dutch and Hosea could do it at camp…

“Thank you, Charles.” 

They finished their meal in a comfortable silence. As the server took their empty bowls, Arthur dug out Midnight’s pistol from his bag. He clumsily wiped it own with some gun oil, keeping it just out of sight from Charles.  
  
“I wouldn’t clean your gun like that under the table.” Charles smirked. “It looks inappropriate.”

Arthur stopped cleaning his gun, pausing to think about how he looked. He started to laugh, until a few other people in the car shushed him. “M’sorry,” he said to Charles, still laughing quietly.

“It’s okay.” He tipped his head up. “What kind of gun is it?”

“It’s Midnight’s gun. I shot it out of his hand.” He passed it over to Charles, still wrapped in the rag. “Keep it.”

“You’re--you don’t want it?”

“Nah, I already have my fair share of souvenirs.”

Pocketing the gun, he said a quick “thank you.” 

“No problem.” He smiled.

The train stopped at the St. Denis station. Luckily there was a train going _ back _ to Rhodes, so the two of them snuck on and went to the last car, near the luggage car in case they needed to hide from the ticket taker.

Not many people seemed to be going to Rhodes in the late morning. They had the car to themselves. 

They chose the last seats in the car, perfect for keeping a lookout for anyone who would come by. The two of them watched the couples saying goodbye to each other, kissing passionately one last time. A pang of sadness struck Arthur in a strange way. He turned to Charles, who wasn’t looking out the window. He looked out to the car ahead of them, keeping an eye out for anyone. Arthur put a hand over Charles’. They interlocked their fingers, just as they did when they first kissed.

They held hands up until the train pulled back into the Rhodes station, even managing to sneak a few quick kisses in.

\--

Beeve and Taima were right where they left them outside of the station. Their tails swatted at vicious flies in the early afternoon sun. 

“Time to go back to camp.” Arthur said, those words sounding strange after all this time of being away. 

“Lead the way.” 

When they headed into camp, they heard John’s voice call out. “Who’s there!”

“It’s me ‘n Charles, ya dumbass!”

“Oh, Arthur! I was worried y’all abandoned us!”

“Nah,” Arthur laughed, “Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder!”   
  
He heard John laugh humorlessly as they made it into camp.   
  
“Arthur and Charles are back!” Mary-Beth called out, sounding surprised to see them.

“So glad yah could _ grace _ us with your presence, Mr. Morgan!” Sean yelled from the campfire, sounding a little boozed up. 

“Yeah, yeah, everyone say your piece now, it’ll be the only chance I’ll let ya!”

“How was your vacation with Arthur, Charles?” Karen asked as they passed.   
  
“I still had to save his life, so it was a lot like bein’ here.”

Arthur scoffed, going back over to his tent. How strange it felt. Nothing had changed. And yet everything had changed. He changed out of his outfit, feeling like he’d been caked into it. As he buttoned up his pants again he looked over at his nightstand. The picture of Mary was still on display, a sign of a past life. He placed it face down on the table, making a note to put it in his memory chest later. He dug through his satchel, pulling out any things he didn’t need to carry around now that he was back at camp. 

Then, at the bottom of the bag, he found an intricately beaded leather string. He recognized it as Charles’. It wasn’t a mistake for him to find it; he put it there. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember when he saw Charles working on this. Perhaps it was something he had previously? When did he put it in his bag? Maybe it was this morning, before Arthur woke up. Either way, without thinking, he tied it to the front of his bag. A show of pride in its display. He ran his finger over the ridges of the beads. He heard his name being called, the voice approaching closer. It was Lenny. “Arthur, is it true about you and Charles?”

Arthur’s heart dropped to his feet, but he remained stoic as he asked, “What about me ‘n Charles?”

“You two, huntin’ gunslingers?”

Arthur’s nerves unwound. “Oh yeah. Dutch didn’t tell ya?”

Lenny shook his head. “Sean pestered Charles until he got annoyed and told him. Then Sean told me to come to you jus’ in case Charles said that to get Sean off of his back.”

“Well, that sounds ‘bout right.” Arthur stroked his chin. Things really _ hadn’t _ changed.

Lenny got closer and patted him on the back. “Glad you’re back, Arthur. It weren’t the same without you.”

Arthur smiled back. “Thanks, Lenny.”   
  
Lenny turned on his heel as he called out, “Sean, it _ was _ true! Now stop botherin’ Charles!”

Arthur laughed to himself, standing up to stretch. He looked back at Charles’ present, then he got an idea.

He flicked through the pages of his journal, carefully tearing out the drawing of Charles. He was about to walk out of camp, when--

“Arthur,” Dutch greeted, resting slightly on the caravan.

“Afternoon,” he said back, keeping the drawing behind his back.

“I take it your time away from camp was successful?”

“Sure was.” Arthur said, his mind going through everything that happened. “DId I miss anything?”

“Oh, son, there’s _ always _things going on ‘round here. ‘Specially with these cousin-fuckers we’re dealing with. I know Hosea’s been getting in good with the Braithwaites, making Catherine quite the cribbage rival. Speaking of, Hosea wants to see you about the shine we stole.”

Arthur shook his head. The plans never stopped coming. “Okay, Dutch.”

Dutch turned and said, “Oh, and Arthur?”

Arthur looked up.   
  
“Welcome back.”

“Thank ya kindly!” Arthur called out as Dutch left his tent.  
  
Before heading over to Hosea, Arthur made a stop at Charles’ tent. He wasn’t around, currently busy chopping wood. Delicately, he placed the drawing face down, under his family photo. 

Hosea was out near the edge, staring out at the water. Arthur walked right past Charles, making sure to point to his gift on his bag. Charles smiled at him, then went back to chopping wood.  
As he walked over to Hosea, he could only think about the hunting flyer in his satchel.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very Mean part in my brain was like "end it on the mission Blessed Are The Peacemakers" but I obviously decided against it because i didn't want to make myself (and everyone else) sad :^) anyway. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> you can find me on twitter @loombyloom so come scream at me abt charthur thank you have a good day


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